


Little Soldiers In A Row

by damagedpickle



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Good Parent Grace Hargreeves, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kid Fic, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Self-Harm, Sort Of, Sports, We Die Like Men, but also not? it's weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24912496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damagedpickle/pseuds/damagedpickle
Summary: Dr Reginald Hargreeves, world-renown child psychologist adopts seven children during a trip to Europe as the ideal test subjects. As his own children, he needs no consent and has no boundaries which he cannot push.  Can he shape seven children of the exact same age to become entirely specialised creations of his design?…Or a no-power au where the children are adopted to be subjects of a psychological experiment instead of child superheroes.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Grace Hargreeves, Grace Hargreeves & Everyone, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves, The Hargreeves Family
Comments: 199
Kudos: 431





	1. Sentiment Holds Us Back

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on here, just trying to get some experience and feedback, create the fic type I've been craving and all that ahaha, please let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, please let me know if the formatting is strange, again, I haven't uploaded on this site before.

He hadn’t thought he’d return from Europe with seven newborn children, but life is full of surprises. When he’d first stepped off the plane in Geneva, his sole intention for his visit had been to attend the conference, present his most recent findings to the committee and return to his study in Canada. But he’d been intrigued by one of the speakers, who’d spoken on the issues surrounding finding participants in experiments regarding children, and he’d started to think. Recently, he had been investigating the influential of environment on children as they grow up, but the speaker had raised an interesting point. If he was to test his theories, it would be difficult to find children and place them under the specific conditions he might need. It would be impossible for him to influence a child from birth, to test whether or not they could be groomed to excel at mathematics, at sport, at art, at music; at whatever he desired. He would need to have almost full custody of the children, and no sane parent would consent to that. Unless-

Dr Reginald Hargreeves started to think. And plan. And act.

His first stop was within Geneva itself. He found a young girl carrying a child she did not want but had not chosen to abort. He compensated her generously and made the first notes in his newly purchased journal.

_First child sourced; Geneva, Switzerland. Male. Bastard child of teen mother. Quiet, relatively healthy at present time. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989. France was his second destination, a short walk across the border from Geneva._

In Lyon, he found a newborn whose mother had died in a car crash precisely five days ago. The child had been removed in an emergency caesarean-section, yet no family had come forward to claim them. The perfect addition. With the same pen used to sign her birth certificate, claiming himself to be the father, he wrote again in his journal.

_Second child sourced; Lyon, France. Female. Orphaned by mother pre-partum. A demanding child, a second nanny was required to deal. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989._

Next, his mission- for this was now very much a mission to him- took him to Portugal. He had gone through Spain with no luck, but upon reaching its western neighbour he found an agency willing to let him adopt, for a considerable fee. But it was nothing in comparison to what these results would yield; he happily paid. As had become his habit, he recounted his fortune in his journal.

_Third child sourced; Porto, Portugal. Male. Adopted from child-care agency, taken from inmate mother. Third nanny has been hired, potentially one will be required per child. Final number of children not yet determined. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989._

Across the Atlantic to England, Dr Hargreeves found his next participant. A cloak and dagger deal with a family heavily reimbursed for their unwanted child. No one need ever mention its true parentage. As he crossed the Atlantic once more, to his journal he turned again.

_Fourth child sourced; Carlisle, England. Male. Bought from family unwilling to raise child. I have had to additionally bribe the nannies in order to prevent word of my plans to spread. I have told none my true intention, but gossip shall always spread as a wildfire. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989._

By the time he reached Germany, finding a child to fit his specific criteria was proving to be increasingly difficult. It took almost two weeks to find a suitable child, and Dr Hargreeves began to worry for his experiment. What if he could not find a suitable range of children in time? Luckily, in rural Cologne, a teenaged girl carrying the child of her now ex-lover was persuaded to relinquish custody. He now set his sights towards eastern Europe. On a train to Poland, the child was inaugurated into the journal.

_Fifth child sourced; Cologne, Germany. Male. Bastard child of jilted teenage girl. Nannies have reported incredible stubbornness from the child, but otherwise it appears to be progressing normally. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989._

His large entourage had attracted too much attention throughout the southern Soviet states, so in a bid to keep his research private and tenuous custody of the five infants, he fled to the most northern regions of Russia. In Murmansk, an overpopulated gave their newborn away for almost nothing. They knew they could not afford their most recent child and they knew they needed the money Dr Hargreeves offered. It was an easy choice. In his journey back to more hospitable climates, the latest child entered the journal.

_Sixth child sourced; Murmansk, Russia (USSR). Female. Youngest child of poverty-stricken family traded for small sum. Extraordinarily subdued, somehow even more so than the first child. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989._

Dr Hargreeves did not hold much hope of reaching even ten children at this stage. A journey through the Scandinavian regions was his last-ditch attempt to gather participants, surprisingly it proved fruitful. In a small town outside of Lahti, a superstitious village was horrified at their latest member. The child’s birth had supposedly come under conditions associated with Satan himself, they were too religious to tolerate its presence. Having decided seven would be suitable enough, Dr Hargreeves boarded a flight to Ontario and noted the addition of his final subject.

_Seventh child sourced; Lahti, Finland. Male. Supposedly cursed child cast out and unwanted by village. No signs of metaphysical abnormalities to note, though the child is the most rambunctious of the seven. As it has become too challenging to move discretely to collect subjects fitting the desired date of birth, I have endeavoured to cut any losses brought about by having only seven subjects and return home. DOB: Oct. 1, 1989._

\---

Upon returning, Dr Hargreeves was a flurry of activity; he was truly dedicated to his field. A new house had to be purchased with sufficient room for the children and their carers. Surveillance installed in each of the house’s many rooms, to ensure data could be collected at all times. He bought seven journals, each the exact same as the original, and on each of their spines placed a number from one through to seven. He had been considering the names ever since he had acquired the first child, but he had only just reached his decision. Names were too personal, too integral to one’s identity to be anything but an uncontrolled variable. Numbering the children would prove sufficient. He assigned each a number based not on the order in which they had been adopted, not their age- he had ensured it was identical almost down to the hour for each- but their promise; their potential. Perhaps he would prove wrong, perhaps this would have consequences extending into the children’s lives, but you do not experiment when one has a predetermined answer. He had spent almost a month travelling across Europe in the name of his work, and Reginald Hargreeves was not prepared to let any boundaries prevent him from reaching far beyond any prior existing research into children. Sentiment would only hinder the results.


	2. The White Horseman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will most likely be from the children's perspectives more so, but let me know if there's anything in particular you want to see.

As soon as the children began displaying motor ability; crawling, grabbing, and playing, Dr Hargreeves begun his first experiment. The first, to mould the children each towards a specific discipline. For his One, who had displayed such authority from birth; physical strength, and the mind of a leader he would create. One, his most promising subject. Perhaps he was partial to the demanding boy from Cologne, but survival was for the fittest. It would serve his One well. The shining star of his investigation. 

Two was significantly less wondrous or outstanding. Agility finer skill perhaps would suit the infant better. Two had been in awe of his more proficient and capable brother- for he supposed that was what he could call their relationship- and had attempted vigilantly to mimic his feats. As One crawled, so did Two attempt in vain to slither across the floor. Two had received his ranking not due to any remarkable talent he had displayed, but incur further jealousy from the boy. Sibling rivalry now had the potential to be studied more in-depth than ever. What exactly would trigger it best, and how would it manifest itself? After all, competition was the key to all success and advancement. He wondered if Two would ever settle for second place, despite its inevitability. 

The position of Three went to the girl from Lyon, the one who had warranted such attention he was forced to higher a second nanny so early in. She was ranked- if he was honest, he knew this was what their “names” really were- Three because her vanity from birth had captured his interest immensely. How far could this self-absorption be stretched? Realistically, he knew that a few bossy moments during infancy rarely dictated one’s entire personality, but if he truly nurtured these traits, he felt they could become prevalent in extraordinary levels. Public speaking, charisma, charm; he would cultivate the irresistible within this child. 

Four, the supposed devil-child, was a rather active baby in the most peculiar of ways. His gaze never rested until it was properly transfixed onto an object. His transfixions had no recognisable patter; a lighter, a spoon, a skirt, a scarf- it changed daily. Dr Hargreeves could not comprehend the child, yet he had bestowed the boy his title with the hopes his oddities would transform into great academic potential, but so far he had seen no evidence of this. As a result of his uncertainty surrounding the child, he had decided the visual arts would be best to push upon him- there was enough leeway should he prove to have severely misjudged the boy.

Subject number Five, he felt he understood best. The boy had isolated himself already from his siblings, preferring to explore whatever environment he was prevented with in solitude. Like Four, he had fixations, but these appeared to be rational, logical, Reginald could understand why the boy took interest in the puzzles, blocks and shapes he was presented with. Maths and science would almost certainly be the focus of Five’s education. It was the way Dr Hargreeves understood him so that caused him to be placed at Five. He could already predict what would become of the child, he seemed somewhat uninteresting at a cursory glance, but still showed more potential than Six and Seven. 

He had recently taken to grouping Six and Seven together, their plainness an utter turn-off for the doctor. Their timidness probably an indicator of cowardice, meekness, submission. Worth study, Dr Hargreeves was sure they could still produce noteworthy and viable data, but he found himself often forgetting of their existence within his own house. It was his forgetfulness that inspired what would later be dubbed his cruellest test; the effects of rejection and isolation within a sibling dynamic. The extent to which he could force others to turn one of their own into an outcast. He chose Seven for this, simply because she already had the disadvantage of being one of only two girls in the group. Six could be the control, to determine the extent shyness was responsible for the alienation. As an afterthought, he assigned literature to Six and music to Seven.

On the children’s fifth birthday, he dismissed each of their nannies and introduced Grace and Pogo. Both results of his previous experiments, he could live without fear of them opposing or exposing him and he could trust the children’s development to their pre-programmed, capable minds. It was also on their fifth birthday he introduced ‘special training’, which would soon become the only time, apart from meals, the children saw the man calling himself their Father. This was a completely intentional decision by Reginald, he wanted to test how far they would push themselves for his attention, his praise, his love. Would absence truly make their hearts grow fonder? He sat them all down for their dinner. It was time to truly begin the experiment.

“Children.” Seven heads turned instantly to him. A part of him curled in lieu of the utter control he had over their attention. “You are all aware that five is a very important age, it is the time where proper schooling education is begun, and young children such as yourselves begin the road to maturity and adulthood. As thus, from tomorrow I will be conducting special training sessions with each of you, one day a week in numerical order. Additionally, you will be beginning formal lessons with Pogo, who you all met earlier today. And, to stress the importance of these new lessons, I have a birthday present for each of you.” This news was so shocking to the children, the mandatory meal-time silence was nearly broken. Eager eyes widened with anticipation and curiosity. Dr Hargreeves merely shook his head in response. “It will have to wait until after our meal. Now, you all know the rules. No one leaves until all the food has been finished.” 

Silence returned to the table, but the air buzzed with exhilaration too loudly to be ignored. 

Dinner was finished with unusual haste, the unprecedented promise of a birthday present outweighing the typical disdain they held for their vegetables. Reginald bid them to follow him as he walked towards the foyer of the house, where seven clothing racks had been placed. Identical uniforms, apart from the exchange of shorts to skirts for Three and Seven, hung on each rack, labelled for its intended. Upon close inspection, each child’s number was seen to be embroidered into the crests adorning the blazers, though the children were not sure if it was to identify their clothing or themselves. Chaos soon erupted in the foyer, as the excitement of the new brought bursts of energy and childish joy. Though their bedtimes were just over an hour away, all seven children were now outfitted in their new garments, leather shoes included but unlaced by all except Five. Four could be heard demanding Seven swap him one of her skirts for his shorts, and One interjecting that Four could not possibly wear Seven’s skirt, because it was not physically possible for a skirt to fit on a boy’s body. The discussion soon derailed into a heated argument in which Four demanded Seven swap bodies with him, and Five reprimanding him for his idiocy. In the end, Grace had to be brought in to explain why swapping bodies was simply not possible at the time, and that if Four so desperately wanted to wear the skirt, she was sure it would be possible to find one that fit a boy’s body, despite One’s strong belief otherwise. With their brand-new gifts and the promise of special lessons with their Father, the children went to bed that night in relatively high spirits. 

Completely ignorant of what was to come.


	3. Satisfactory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very first 'special training' session and first POV from one of the kids!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who have been commenting and kudosing, your support is really appreciated and your feedback even more so!

On Sunday, October 2nd, 1994, Seven participated in the very first ‘special training’ of all her siblings. She’d been the object of all sixes’ jealousy but had drowned out their groans and offers to swap with her own barely contained excitement. Finally, she had beaten her siblings at something, even if it was purely coincidental that Sunday would be the day proceeding their Father’s announcement. Her other siblings- particularly One through Three- had always teased her about being Seven, but now, she could hold it over all of them. Uniform carefully done-up, she almost sprinted towards her Father’s Study. A forbidden place of curiosity and intrigue for the children, and she would be the first to see it- perhaps even to enter it. Her timid knocks seemed to echo definingly through the house. One second, five seconds, ten seconds, she counted just as she’d learnt with Tatianna, her former nanny. Seven frowned at the thought of Tatianna; it had only been two days since she’d seen the woman and yet there seemed to be something within her longing for her company- that she knew wasn’t coming. Her Father had sent Tatianna away, to be replaced by ‘special training’. He’d said to forget about Tatianna, Seven had already failed her first lesson.

The foreboding Study Door opened for the first time in Seven’s life. She tried to peer around her Father as much as possible, to memorise each crevice, but his imposing figure blocked her view. When he cleared his throat, she quickly lowered her gaze.

“Number Seven.” An awful pause came between them. “At least you have arrived on time.”

He beckoned her to follow him, and they left the Study behind. Seven found herself ushered into the metal box hidden off at the side of the foyer. This too was unfamiliar to her; she had never learnt its purpose or even name- she would hold this over her siblings, though she lacked the courage to ask its name. Once inside, the floor began to lower steadily, until they arrived in a cold, concrete room. It held merely one item; a sleek grand piano situated in its centre. Her Father commanded her to sit, and begun to identify each of the notes and their corresponding notation. It was then time for Seven to prove herself. When each note was pointed to, she was to respond. Seven could do this.

Seven had to do this.

“A. E. D. D sharp. C. A flat.”

Seven _would_ do this. 

\---

They worked on notes for an hour before her Father was satisfied with her competence. At this point, Seven could hardly respond to the questions, her throat was dry, voice cracked and broken. Never had she felt so relieved when her Father announced they could now move to scales and posture. At least, she had felt relieved. But after two hours of playing up and down the C Major scale, desperately trying to keep the coins from slipping off the tops of her hands, Seven could feel salty tears slipping down her face. She could taste them too- though they did nothing to sate her thirst. She played again, and again, and again, but no matter how straight her back, how flat her feet or how steady her wrists, it wasn’t enough. The entire time, her Father kept his cane pressed against her back to keep her positioned correctly, when he finally relinquished it, she could still feel its presence. Her work was deemed 'almost satisfactory' and 'in need of practice', but of enough quality for her to begin work on her very first song. Seven tried to be excited about it, it truly did sound much more fun than the tedious, repetitive scales, but the phantom weight of the cane and the coins held her back. As she began playing, she recognised the ditty from her nights with Tatianna, and wondered if the song choice was intentional. Subconsciously, she hummed along to the melody.

Люли, люли, люленьки, (Lullaby, lyuli, lyulenki,)

Где вы, где вы, гуленьки? (Where are you, where are you, little doves?)

Прилетайте на кровать, (Fly on the bed,)

Начинайте ворковать. (Start to coo.)

Люли, люли, люленьки, (Lullaby, lyuli, lyulenki,)

Прилетели гуленьки. (They came flying to the bed)

Сели в изголовьице - (Sat down by your head)

Спи-ка на здоровьице. (Guarding your sleep)

Стали гули ворковать - (Started to coo)

Стала доча засыпать. (Began to fall asleep.)

Upon noticing the humming, she turned cautiously to her Father, anticipating his reprimands, but surprisingly he failed to remark or react, so she continued. In this small way, she held on to the maternal comfort so suddenly ripped from her. Perhaps her 'special training' could be salvaged. After another hour, a final song was introduced for the day, this one unfamiliar to her. Nonetheless, an hour of practice ensued, until Seven felt she could never not recognise the song again. Though she understood why she had to start with small songs, it did make it very boring to practice them. When the final note was struck for the fifty-third time- she had been counting each time diligently- her Father rose to his feet.

"That shall conclude your training for this week, Number Seven. Next week, you shall meet me here at the same time and I expect that you should have practised frequently in between using the piano now located in the recreational room." Too nervous- exhausted, famished, terrified, self-conscious, parched- to address him, she merely nodded in response. On auto-pilot, she retraced her steps from that morning to return to her room. Though she longed for water, food, her body longed for rest. Never before had her muscles been so strained. Wearily, she collapsed onto her bed, splayed out to stretch her aching body as much as it would. As expected, however, there was a knock at her door and she was forced to rise. She asked the knocker's identity, though she already knew it.

"It's us! You have four seconds to let us in and tell us every single thing about special training or else we might have to steal your uniform. Especially your skirt, sadly-" A pained grunt cut off Four, and she quickly opened the door before any severe scuffles could break out. All six of her siblings stood there, eager-eyed, prepared to attend 'special training' vicariously through her. There was a moment of silence, in which they stared blankly and expectedly at her before their patience wore thin.

"Well," prompted Three, "aren't you going to tell us how it was? Did he let you in the Study?"

"N-n-no way he let-t-t her in the st-s-study-"

"Maybe there's a ceremony-"

"Was it a test? Because I haven't studied for a test-"

Suddenly, her small room was much too loud. The walls were shrieking at her, the voices of her siblings overlapping until they formed one ginormous bundle of noise. Too much noise. Too much-

"Maybe, she could tell us if you all shut up!" Five cut all of them off. He'd always been good at that, much to One's chagrin. Despite the buzzing in her head, Seven felt herself smile at the thought. Served One right for being so bossy.

"Oh. Sorry, Seven," responded Four, apologising as if commenting on the weather, or an oddly shaped vegetable. Seven felt her excitement from the morning returning to her. Even if 'special training' had been long, gruelling and tedious, it had still been the Very First 'special training'. She smiled again, wider than before.

"Well, I didn't get to go into the Study-"

"T-told you," Two interjected, only to receive stern glares from each child and an elbow from Five.

"I didn't get into the Study, but I did get to go in the metal box- and you'll never guess what it does..." And with the complete attention of all her siblings for the first time in her life, she began to narrate her day.

\---

Dr Reginald Hargreeves had retired to his study after a long day of tutoring mind alight with inspiration. Not only had Number Seven displayed unprecedented competence with the piano, but she had also already begun to demonstrate the demure air of one facing the shunning he had manufactured.

_Number Seven has demonstrated high skill and promise in the study of piano, the introduction of other instruments can thus be pushed forward significantly. Her ranking has already proved detrimental to her self-confidence; she is reluctant to make eye contact or even speak, her posture hunched and unassuming. Significant interest, was, however, displayed towards the study. The root of this fascination should be investigated, as should any similar trend in the other subjects. Practise has been assigned as homework, the effect of this upon her performance, confidence and sibling interactions will be observed throughout the week._

With his entry complete, he turned towards the monitors on his desk to see the children all gathered around Number Seven as the damned do a priest, and allowed a small smile to cross his face. The experiment was already proving successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will most likely be from Luther's POV of his first training, so let me know if you have any thoughts!


	4. Line-Leader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Luther's 'special training' and POV

One stood scowling as he turned the corner to see both Two and Four in line to use the bathroom. It wasn’t fair that in their enormous mansion, the one with _nineteen_ bathrooms, they were all forced to share, but it would do no good to question what their Dad said. One had absolute faith in the man- he surely wouldn’t do anything to steer him wrong. And this had led One to the conclusion and indignation he was currently experiencing.

“Beat it.” He glowered at his brothers, only to be met with equally resentful stares.

“Nuh-uh. We were here first, and you can’t make us. And besides, we were here first,” retorted Four, rather disrespectfully in One’s opinion. He had a very good reason. He had to get to his ‘special training’ on time, because he had to make sure he did better than Seven- even if she made it sound kind of boring. It didn’t really sound like that much fun to spend five hours playing piano, but if it was what his Dad wanted, he would endure without complaint.

No- he would thrive without complaint. He was _One_ for a reason. Yet Two and Four refused to move.

“But _I’ve_ got special training today and I don’t want to be late. And don’t you think Number One should be going first?” Still they remained still as statues.

“I-f-f-f y-you were so sp-pecial, you w-w-would have your own b-b-bathroom.”

Just as One was preparing to retort with something he hadn’t quite thought up yet, the bathroom door clicked open and Five stepped out. One scowled deeper. Stupid Five, always first in the bathroom, holding up the line for people with more important things to be doing. A scuffle immediately broke out, and though Four was wiry and Two agile, One surpassed them in brute strength, able to shove them behind him and claim his prize. Two and Four had not lost honourably; they persisted to bang on the door and call him a “cutter” and a “cheat”, so he finished his business quickly and sprinted past them before they attempted to settle their dispute physically. Two against one, they might have a chance of beating him. Just as Seven had the day before, he marched to his Dad’s study, but instead of the timid knocks left by Seven he rapped sharply three times. Confidence was a sign of strength in a man, his Dad had told him, the sign of a brave and courageous leader.

One was determined to be that leader. His position would be earnt. His Dad’s approval, respect, love, would be earnt.

The door opened, a cold, monocle-d eye stared down at him.

“Number One. You are on time,” his Dad noted, absently scribbling in his journal. As Seven did, One attempted to peer past his Dad and into the intrigue of his Study. But unlike Seven, he was granted access. “Come, Number One, enter. Take a look around, what can you see?”

One did as he was told. The Study, on closer inspection, was not as grand or spectacular as he had envisioned, but he supposed there was a certain respectability to it.

“It’s got a picture of you. And you’ve got a lot of awards, fancy ones.” One may not be entirely literate yet, but he had long ago learnt to identify the true name of his Dad. _Reginald Hargreeves_ had a certain finesse to it that One wished he could one day hold in his own name. Perhaps if he excelled today-

“Pah! Those are trivial objects, materialistic goods with no true value or measure of worth. Tell me, Number One, do you see the cluttered mess found so often in the rooms of your siblings? The chaos accompanied by immaturity?”

A secondary glance by One proved this to be true. There was sense of cleanliness, organisation and refinement to the room, lacking in all of his siblings’ rooms- even his own, he realised in horror. This would not be acceptable going forward. He had to set the example, he had to show them the way forward, had to lead!

“No, Dad, it’s very neat. It would make Liesl proud.”

One instantly realised his mistake, as a flash of- was it jealousy, rage or loathing- flashed across his Dad’s face. Right. Their nannies were in the past. He had to remember that. He had the robot now.

His Dad quickly returned to his usual, inscrutable stare. “Correct, Number One. It is not only neat, but carefully categorised, planned and prepared. In order to lead this household, it is essential that all things of mine are so. And for you, as Number One, this must also be true. To be a leader, you must be organised in all things. Without further warning, his Dad turned heel and left the room, leaving One hard pressed to catch him up. Upon arriving at their destination, One felt a beam of pride that his Dad knew which one was _his_ room. He didn’t think the man had _ever_ visited one of his siblings’. One was embarrassed by the disarray of his room, but infinitely grateful he had at least thought to make his bed before leaving that morning.

Again, with his trademarked, unreadable expression, his Dad turned to him. “I see you have your work cut out for you.”

Nothing further was said, nothing further needed to be said. One had his mission, and he set about it vigorously.

It took far longer than he had anticipated.

He had not expected after picking every item off his floor, he would have to carry the heavy vacuum cleaner down the stairs and proceed to activate and operate it himself. He had not expected to drag each item of furniture- his bed, drawers, bedside table, bookshelf- rearranging him to his Dad’s liking. And he had not expected to feel so sore, so drained, so stretched at the end of it all.

Of course, Number One did not know his Dad’s secondary motive for the strenuous activity; did not know of the muscle mass he was attempting to accumulate within the five-year-old, along with the arrogance and leadership he wanted so deeply engrained within the boy.

By the time One’s room was suitably aligned with his Dad’s vision, he was barely capable of moving. All his energy had been depleted, his arms but heavy logs attached to his body. Upon his Dad’s dismissal, he collapsed onto his bed, wanting to sleep and never wake up, like the princess in Liesl’s story. Unfortunately for him, his siblings had other ideas. They burst into his room unannounced, eager to know how his ‘special training’ had varied from Seven’s. Did he play an instrument? Would they all have to play an instrument? What if they had to make a band? Were they going to be famous? Despite his exhaustion, the opportunity to boast was not one he ever passed on.

“My training was actually cool, way better than just playing the stupid piano.” He didn’t even notice Seven shrink at his words. He’d barely even registered her presence. “I got to redecorate my room _and_ I got to go inside the Study.”

Even Two looked impressed at his final statement. Good. Maybe he would pay One the respect he believed himself entitled to in the future.

“You have to tell us everything about it now. Everything. It’s very important you don’t leave out any detail,” pushed Three. She was a little in awe that her brother had actually stepped inside the Study, but also a little jealous. She wished she could command her Dad’s respect like that.

“It was very tidy, just like the foyer or the lounge room- no toys or anything.” The children were impressed at this; not that the meagre possessions they held could be truly classified as toys, but they liked to pretend the leftover cardboard and plastic they had reshaped were the same as all the children in books they read had. “And, there’s a portrait of Dad in there, right above his desk. He’s very serious and brave in it, a leader just like me.” Two and Five scoffed loudly at this but allowed One to continue his tale of organisation and leadership, which he narrated with a vigour not at all reminiscent of his aching muscles.

\---

Reginald had been rather impressed by the dedication and enthusiasm Number One threw into his training. All in an effort to impress his father-figure, he had committed feats he had not expected the child to even attempt, let alone complete without protest, obediently and efficiently. And his confidence, self-assurance, had already progressed so far. Numbers One and Seven already developed polar opposite personalities; yet they both strived for his approval and attention. This was worth note.

_Number One has demonstrated physical capability in terms of strength and leadership and has quite willingly taken up his role of the ‘eldest’ sibling. Numbers Two, Four and Five show the most opposition to his authority, which shall have to be corrected subtly. Though research demonstrates younger or only siblings do respond negatively to their elders, a severe lack of disrespect for all authority could be detrimental to the experiment. This will be further explored during upcoming training sessions. It will be essential to further establish Number One as the trusted leader, through biased treatment even the likes of Four will be able to comprehend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support that's been coming in, please feel free to leave suggestions, predictions or thoughts below


	5. Yessir.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diego and Grace, that's it, that's the chapter. Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW  
> There's a brief hint of Reggie being a bit of a perv (nothing graphic, detailed or explicitly mentioned), so if this has the potential to be an issue for you, just skip the middle section (denoted by the horizontal lines/dividers) and you'll avoid it entirely.

There was a bright and cheery humming coming from the rather cold and desolate kitchen. This might have been considered perfectly normal by a child; having someone happily in the kitchen a regular occurrence, but to Two, this was incredibly suspicious. The Hargreeves house was simply not a cheery house. Of course, it may have also been unusual to find a child in the kitchen as the sun’s rays were still seeping into the sky, but it was ‘special training’ for the boy, so he had awoken even earlier than he knew One did yesterday in the hopes of outshining his brother. But now there was a strange, happy buzz coming from the room he often compared to a basement in all the worst ways. A small fist wrapped around a cardboard sword.

“W-wh-h-o’s there? C-c-com-me ou-t-t-t w-w-ith your h-hands up!”

If there was a robber, it was going to be Two that caught him. Then One would respect him. Then One would let him be co-leader, or at least an assistant leader.

However, it was not a robber making those funny noises so foreign to the child.

“Why, it’s just me, silly! Didn’t your dad introduce us, or have you just forgotten?”

Oh. Right. It was the woman from their birthday. Sofía’s replacement. The beautiful, movie star one. At least, Three said that’s what movie stars were meant to look like. Two’d never seen a movie, he wasn’t sure how Three had seen one, but she’d been incredibly insistent on the matter.

“I’m s-s-s-sorry, ma’am, I d-d-d-id-dn’t mean to interrupt you. I t-th-th-ought you might have been a r-r-ob-b-bb-er.”

 _Idiot_. Couldn’t even talk properly in front of the nice lady. He found her red heels incredibly fascinating, much more so than her pretty face. Despite his best efforts shrink away, she lowered herself down to his level instead.

“Now, that was a very brave thing to do! You must be an extra-special young man. And I’m sure you need a big breakfast after all that hard work. How do you feel about pancakes?” Two nodded eagerly, eyes alight with anticipation. “And would you like to help me cook the pancakes?”

“Yes p-please, ma’am!” Two had never, ever cooked before. It all seemed rather exciting.

She leant down and looked at him rather sternly, yet somehow entirely unlike the uncaring gaze of his Dad.

“My name is Grace, not ma’am, silly-billy! Now, let’s get an apron on you, and we can get to work. I suppose you wouldn’t have cooked before, so we will have to start from the very beginning, but I’m sure you can handle it, can’t you?”

Two could not recall meeting anyone who ever smiled as much as Grace and found it was rather refreshing. A hand-made apron, with blue spots and white lace, was draped over his front and tied at his waist, just like Grace wore hers.

“First, we have to measure out two cups of flour. If I do the first one, can you do the second one?”

“Uhuh! I’m a very f-fast learner, Sofía used t-t-t-t…”

A well-manicured hand was placed on his shoulder. “Take your time, Number Two, just picture the word in your mind.”

“S-Sofía used t-to say I was qu-quick-ker than anyone she-d-d ever t-taught.” Then, he remembered he wasn’t supposed to talk about Sofía anymore. “Oh n-n-nn-no, I’m-mm s-s-sss-orry G-Gra-ace, p-pp-please d-don’t tell D-Dad!”

This time, it was two hands; one on each shoulder. “Why would I do that? We’re just making pancakes is all.”

Suddenly, Two felt compelled to return her sunny smile.

* * *

The pancakes had been the best he’d ever had in his life. Even those the ones he had poured were misshapen and lumpy, they were perhaps even the best thing he had tasted. Grace had taught him how to put a face on them using sauce, sprinkles and fruit, and had said his was good enough to be hung in an art gallery. Consequently, Two reported for ‘special training’ in unusually high spirits. He knocked sharply on the Study door, optimistic about the day ahead. Grace had promised he could help cook dinner if he finished training in time, so he in turn had promised himself to do exactly that.

“Number Two.” The tantalising door swung opened, revealing his Dad, in all his formidable glory.

“G-g-good mm-morning, Sir.” Back straight, eyes up, head forwards. A nod in return. It was their system, the pattern designed to create order between them.

Without permitting the boy entrance to the elusive study, his Dad retreated back to retrieve a bathing suit decorated in the colours of Two’s uniform. It even had his number on the crest, just like his blazer. He waited until his Dad handed it to him, until the order to change was given, never presuming anything. All the rooms surrounding the office were forbidden for the children, so Two was unsure where he was expected to change; though secretly he hoped he would get to use the Study. Again, he waited for his orders, but this time none came.

"S-sir? I-I was j-just w-wo-wondering w-where I'm-mm sup-p-posed to ch-change?"

There was no answer, so Two eventually decided to sacrifice his dignity and get dressed in the hall. His siblings never came to this wing of the house anyways, so it would just be his Dad, it was fine. Fine. 

It was fine. 

Once he had neatly folded his uniform, he was lead towards the mansion's pool, a familiar part of his childhood. His Dad had insisted swimming was very important for a child's development, so they'd had plenty of time spent treading the water, blowing bubbles and making 'starfish' with their limbs sprawled out wide. Two had loved it, the pool had always made for an enjoyable day. He whispered a silent prayer that today wouldn't ruin that. 

The pool looked slightly different to how Two remembered it. Coloured strips now divided the water into five sections, perhaps to let lots of people use it at once. That didn't sound as fun as the swimming Two had done in the past, but maybe Big Kids did things a little differently. At his Dad's orders, he slipped into first lane, gripping the edge tightly. In his Dad's hand there was a strange little device with buttons on it.

"On my count, swim to the opposite end and back, ensuring you touch the wall at both ends. I will be able to tell if you haven't."

"Y-y-yes, Sir."

"Three, two, one." A whistle sounded, followed by frantic splashing.

It would continue for two hours. Up and down, down and up. The pancakes in Two's stomach churned around and around, angry at the disruption his swimming had brought. Eventually, he was rewarded with water, though he loathed the site of anything resembling the pool now soaking his skin. A brief respite, before a towel and Two's dry uniform from before were produced. Thankfully, the pool had a change room shoved into its corner. Two had never been so grateful for walls in his life. 

Next, there was running. Too much running. Again, it was up and down, repeated until he could no longer support himself. He quite literally collapsed during his lap, forcing his Dad to end the training early. To his extremely obvious disappointment. One had lasted the whole day and still been standing afterwards, Two couldn't even run without falling on his face. He deserved to be second.

No, that wasn't true. He wasn't even worthy of that; he should probably just swap with Seven now. Even she'd finished her training.

Filled with disgust, he sought out Grace's arms. She'd given him a hug before his training, and it had felt particularly nice. He really wanted to get another one. And in a way- an embarrassing, humiliating, shameful way- he had finished his training early; surely he was in time to help prepare dinner.

* * *

Grace was back in the kitchen when Two found her, still humming to herself as she worked. According to the clock on the wall, and Two's own estimations, his siblings would still be in their lessons with the monkey. 

"Whatever happened here? My goodness Number Two, are you feeling alright?" 

The shock in Grace's voice was someone soothing, somehow it made him feel like somewhat less of a complete failure. Just as he had hoped, she wrapped him tightly in an embrace. 

"I'm o-k-kay, 's just t-tr-training w-w-with Dad. F-Fell over." The hug got even tighter, but it didn't hurt him as he expected. The grip was grounding, removing the exhaustion plaguing Two's body and mind. 

Now Grace made a different sort of humming noise, a deeper one, with a note of dissatisfaction. Two hoped desperately he hadn't already disappointed the kind woman who had taken him in. "We're going to have to disinfect those scrapes, and maybe put an icepack on for your temperature. The disinfectant might sting a bit, but I know you're a brave one."

Two let the praise fill him up, bathing in its warmth. As Grace patched up his knees, patting gently where the skin had torn, there was a sense of longing within him. As she rested the icepack on his forehead, he decided to try and voice it.

"Why can't you be my Dad, Grace? Everyone else can keep Sir, and I can have you to myself."

"I can't replace your dad, silly! But..." Grace cocked her head, as if in deep thought. "I suppose I could be your mum instead?"

"Mum?" He wasn't familiar with the word.

"Well, it's what you call your dad when they're a woman. How do you like it?"

He reached up to hug his Mum.

"I think it's really good. Does this mean I have to do special training with you too?" Two didn't really want anymore 'special training', but maybe with his Mum it wouldn't be as bad. 

"Of course not! But, if you wanted to, I could assign you a special mission?" A mission did sound a lot better than training. "You're going to have to help me cut up all these apples; I'm making a pie."

That did sound fun. Earnestly, he grabbed his special knife and assigned apple, hacking it vigorously until small pieces formed. He'd been so quick, his Mum had given him a second one to work on. Later, he kneaded the dough and mixed the cinnamon and apples in the pot, watching as the mixture bubbled. He hated the way the bubbles took him back to the pool, but loved the smile on his Mum's face as she exclaimed her pride in his work.

As Two went off to bed that night, he wondered if everyone's mum was like Grace, or if he was just extra lucky. He also asked the same of Reginald, but figured maybe that was where mum's and dad's differed. He had no way of knowing better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know it's "Mom" in comics and probably the show, but I'm Australian and just can't bring myself to use it, I'm sorry.


	6. Hollywood

Three had actually been rather disappointed by her training; in comparison to her siblings', she'd found it boring and uninteresting. All she'd done was watch a bunch of boring old men rant and rave about things she'd never heard of, sometimes in languages she didn't understand. Then her Dad had brought in Grace, and they'd spoken for a bit in French, like she'd used to do with Antoinette. At least that part of the day had been nice. Three had often found her missing the intimacy of her relationship with her nanny over the past few days and although the robot in no way replaced her, the familiarity had been comforting. As she sat lamenting her anticlimactic 'special training', Seven could be heard practicing in the recreational room. 

The tune she played held the same familiar comfort as the French.

"Seven! I didn't know you knew Frère Jacques too! Did your nanny teach you as well?"

Oddly enough, it wasn't Seven who replied. 

"Don't be stupid, Three, she's not playing whatever you just said, it's clearly Brother John. Anne used to sing it to me; it's an English song, not a French one." Three hadn't heard or seen Five enter the room, but supposed he must have been somewhere nearby to have been listening. She simply could not think where that would have been.

"No, it's French, Antionette said the English just stole it. Like they stole everything."

Five was extremely offended by this. Three knew Anne had been extremely patriotic- that's what had Antoinette had called it anyway. All Three just knew she talked about England to Five a lot.

"Is this an argument I can hear? You all know my position on this. How can you ever expect to function as a collective if you divide yourselves in this manner?"

_Dad._ It couldn't be good news. _Especially when he's in this sort of mood._

She heard Five curse under his breath, another thing he'd picked up from his nanny. Her Dad hated it, but Five said it was just too difficult to unlearn. 

Three knew the protocol for this type of situation. It wasn't official by any means, but practised enough times to become an automatic response. She bowed her head- saw Seven do the same from her seat at the piano. 

"Sorry, Dad." 

Behind her, a quiet voice echoed her. "Sorry, Fa- Dad."

"Raise your head Number Three, you must carry yourself with pride and dignity if you wish others to take you seriously. Without confidence in yourself, you cannot command respect." Instantly, Three shot her head up. That was a lesson. Her Dad's lessons were always specific, important and well-enforced should they not be understood. 

"Sorry, Dad."

Three didn't notice Seven had not been given the same lesson as her. Her interest was taken by the distinct absence of Five in the room. _Sneaky bastard._ That was one of Anne's words Three herself had taken to. She hadn't dared say it out-loud though. 

Her Dad nodded in recognition of her apology. "Number Seven, you may resume practice, I am here to speak to Number Three." Seven went back to Frère Jacques, and Three followed her Dad's directions to be seated. "I have some additional study pertaining to your individual training, Number Three. These are films dubbed in various dialects, you are to watch them and write a summary of them as best you can. This is to be done before next Wednesday, understood?"

"Yes, Dad, I understand. Thank you." As her Dad left the room, Three's heart did a loop-de-loop. She held in her hands actual movies, the movie stars Antionette had gushed about, the stories she had become so enamoured with. Fashion, romance, glamour. She could finally experience that world for herself. Was she worried about understanding them? Writing a summary? Absolutely. But for the gift of cinema, she would figure it out. 

* * *

Movies were officially Three's new favourite thing. She had stayed up all night in the recreational room watching the collection her Dad had assigned her, which consisted of both films originally in English translated for various other languages and what she now knew as 'foreign films', and had fallen in love with all of them. It had been exhilarating to watch the protagonists escape the inescapable, fall passionately in love and defeat great villains; and it had been her first true taste of the outside world. It was her drug, she was giddy with it. Knowing it was well past her bedtime, she was almost silent as she made her way through the mansion's many corridors. Unlit, gloomy, foreboding; Three had never been fond of them. Each step capable of raising the dead, each breath a thundering wind, there was almost no room for her to move. But high as she was, she didn't notice, or perhaps she didn't care. There was someone awake who did care, however.

"Three! You can't be out of your room, Dad will be really angry if he sees you!"

Of course One had noticed she was missing. And of course he was worried about their Dad finding her.

Everything was about their Dad with One. 

"It's fine One, I was doing extra work for my special training. You'll never guess what I got to do!"

One frowned suspiciously, but Three liked to think of it as jealousy. He hadn't gotten any extra work assigned from their Dad. He just got the normal, boring work from Pogo. "What was it? I thought you said Dad only made you watch the weird videos of people yelling."

"Well, that was before. Now, I get to watch actual movies, all different sorts. One of them, it had this giant bear-thing and a cat bus, and this other one, yeah, it had mermaids in it. And one of the mermaids actually got to marry a prince! They had a wedding and everything! Ooh! There was one with this assassin too, and it was a woman and she was super cool- she got to shoot people and she had a sort-of husband. Like, I don't think they were married because they didn't show a wedding, but they did lots of kissing and some other stuff. But they were all so cool One!"

One didn't seem to share her excitement, he just looked rather lost. 

"What's a wedding?"

Three was rather taken aback at that. She'd assumed weddings were something everyone knew about, like spiders, or forks.

"It's when people get married," she explained rather lamely. By the perplexed expression still evident on One's face, Three concluded her explanation to be insufficient. "When two people love each other and then they have a party to celebrate it, and make it all official."

"What's the point of that? Couldn't you just have a party for some other reason?"

Three was appalled at this. "But that ruins the point! It's all about finding your true love, because it can't be real without a marriage. The wedding is what makes it so special."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. How do you know if you love someone?" 

Three thought about this one for a while. The movies hadn't really made that obvious, but everyone seemed to do nice things for the people they loved, so maybe if people were really nice to you, that was love. But, they'd also said you were meant to love your dad, and Three wasn't sure if that applied to her Dad. He was always locking them away in the Reflection Room for days at a time, and that was never nice or fun or even comfortable. Four had just been put in there today, Three briefly wondered if he'd be allowed out for his 'special training' tomorrow. Maybe love was different for dads.

"I don't really know. I guess you just really like them. And do nice things for them. And do a lot of kissing- that was what they did in the assassin movie." Three didn't know what else to say, it was hard explaining things to One, especially feelings-stuff. He always took forever to understand it, and asked so many questions. But surprisingly he was quiet about this. 

"Thanks, Three. I think you should go to bed now though, Dad will be very angry if he finds you, you don't want to join Four in the Reflection Room."

The thought of that isolating room, combined with Four's unending requests to borrow her skirt, was enough to drive Three into her room beside One's. Her room was rather plain, walls bear and void of any personality. There was none of the charm she had seen in all her movies, no decor or glam. In the notepad kept inside her desk, she wrote out her name, as neatly as she could. Three was her favourite word to spell, she'd practiced it enough so that she could do it perfectly every time. She never even had to cheat and write '3', like Two had done occasionally with his name. Three used her scented markers, procured from Four's bedroom, to decorate any uncovered area of paper with an intense array of colours, before gluing her masterpiece to the wall above her bed. A satisfied smile graced her lips. As she settled down for what Antionette had coined 'beauty-sleep', there was a short knock from the wall adjacent to One's room. As she did every night, Three got up and knocked back three times, signalling she was safe and okay. One couldn't sleep himself unless he'd heard her knock, Three realised guiltily that was why he'd still been awake. Though she also knew he couldn't hear her through the walls- her Dad had wanted them all to be sound-proof for all the cameras he'd installed, One and Three's shared wall provided the only connection between their rooms- she softly called out to him.

"Goodnight, One. You can sleep now, I'm here."

She didn't know almost the exact same phrase was repeated across the wall from a separate pair of lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alison was really hard to write for me, so I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit weird. Next chapter we're going to Klaus as I'm sure you've already guessed, but things are probably going to start ramping up in the hurt factor pretty soon :(


	7. Spiteful Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god I nearly lost this chapter so many times, I hope it hasn't suffered as a result of my inability to properly utilise keyboard shortcuts.  
> This chapter was brought to you by a fuck-ton of 'undo' and this spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1DWTtTyjgd08yp?si=EDGEn__2SBelW_FO5ya-KA
> 
> Idk I just like it a lot, and I think the vibes work for this.

A spider scurried across the roof, tirelessly going back and forth to finish its web. Four thought it looked pretty good for just one spider's work. He'd been watching the spider work diligently over the past three hours he'd been in the Reflection Room, using it as a convenient distraction from the unnerving shadows that danced across its walls. As he stared, compartmentalising all the way, he wondered if the spider had children on the way- if she was preparing a home for her family. Four hoped that she- and he had decided himself the spider would be a 'she'- would be a better parent than his. That she wouldn't lock her children away in an empty, gloomy bathroom for stealing make-up that wasn't even stolen in the first place. He had been borrowing with permission. His Dad hadn't cared, or more accurately, hadn't believed him. He'd then insisted it was a double punishment; for stealing and for lying. Four stopped trying after that. He just lowered his head, walked dutifully to the slaughter and responded without reacting to the promise of release before 'special training' began. It had only been three hours, but Four had no way of knowing that. To him, it felt as if nothing existed beyond the sterile white door. 

The web was finished much before Four's punishment was. Nonetheless, the spider continued to adjust it, alter it just slightly, perfecting it throughout the night. Four swore he saw her lay eggs at some point before dawn, though he was only guessing. But it seemed like something a mother would do for her children; his Dad had prepared them a home, as cold and lonely as it was. A few hours before he was due to be collected for training, the shadows began to behave suspiciously. They followed him into the frosted-glass shower, they followed behind the marble cabinets. In his Dad's voice, they called out, demanding he put himself together. But the shadows kept crawling nearer, no matter how small a ball he wound himself into. With each tear they grew louder, each plea larger, each shake more corporeal. When his Dad finally came to free him, he almost missed the shivering figure curled up in the bath.

"Number Four! What is the meaning of this?" 

Four didn't respond. His latest tactic was to ignore the shadows. 

"Number Four! Respond to my question, or there will be consequences."

Clearly, his latest tactic wasn't working. He returned to an earlier one. "Please, please leave me alone. Why are you even here?"

Then, he felt something he hadn't in the last ten hours. Physical contact. "Number Four. Your training was scheduled to begin one and a half minutes ago, stop this nonsense at once."

On a desperate autopilot, Four fell to his knees and pleaded, begged. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please don't make me stay here, please, please let me out!" 

A rough hand gripped his wrist tight, pulling him violently from his shelter. Four offered no resistance, simply grateful to be leaving the shadows behind. He let himself be manhandled into an airy study, grounded by benevolent streaks of sunlight pouring through the blinds. A wooden desk bathed in the beams, offering up a drawing pad and abundance of coloured and led pencils. Cautiously, he approached the padded seat, slowly pulling it out for himself. 

"Be seated, Number Four." There was no hesitation from the boy. "Today, we are going to be working on your drawing skills, as a basis for a deeper study of the visual arts. For a test run, I would like you to draw something based on the last twenty-four hours of your life. You have one hour."

No response was necessary, no talk at all would be necessary for the next hour. Four was grateful for that, he much preferred silence when it came to his Dad. Pencil in hand, his mind churned at the prospect of filling the blank sheet before him. The spider, the mother, came first. Her web, strong and proud. Her children followed, eager to explore this new and strange world; they were guided lovingly by their mother. How Four envied them. His jealousy manifested in the shadows which began to haunt the children. They began controlled, gentle shadings along the tiles and amenities, but soon swallowed the picture whole. Led swallowed the bathtub, the web, the spider-family he longed for. By the end of the hour, the paper was nothing but a compilation of emulous scribbles, a bitter storm that brought tears and longing. When his Dad came to assess his work, Four was catatonic. Part of him was compelled to drop everything and beg forgiveness for the abomination he had created, but a much stronger part refused to act, or react, at all.

"What on Earth is this, Number Four?" 

Four did not respond. He didn't even hear the question. All he saw was seven little spiderlings, waving mockingly from their domestic web. Shadows lingered at the border of their perfect world, but refused to cross the threshold. Instead, it seemed they were destined to turn on Four. 

"Number Four!"

All Four heard was his shrieking thoughts, the taunting of the black, furry arachnids. Where had the sun gone? Four couldn't remember closing the blinds, yet the golden streams had disappeared. 

"Number Four?"

* * *

Dr Reginald Hargreeves may have not been the ideal candidate for a father of seven, but he was an exceptionally apt psychologist. Certainly competent enough to recognise Number Four was not currently present, at least in a mental capacity. Enough to recognise the signs disassociation and psychosis the boy was displaying. Enough to draw the conclusion between the shadowy scrawl he'd just been handed, and the ten hours the boy had spent isolated in a darkened bathroom. However, he was not empathetic enough to care. Not sympathetic enough to intervene. It was the doctor, and not the person, who won out. The doctor who wanted to see where this would lead; was it temporary, what could it be a symptom of, would any of his siblings react in the same way? While Reginald waited for the episode to pass, he altered Number Four's training scope. Art was certainly still the way forward, he could see talent lying beneath frenzied scribbles, but the inspiration... a less traditional route would be perhaps more advantageous. 

He studied a local guide book, marking locations of interest as he browsed. The woods an hour out of town, a church he knew to be abandoned- the cemetery; the mausoleum.

* * *

After an hour, the sunlight reappeared, banishing the loathsome shadows once more. The haze clouding his mind disappeared, to reveal his Dad waiting expectantly, arms crossed. Anxiously, he searched for the notepad and pencils, desperate to prove himself. He couldn't be done with 'special training', it was his first session- even Seven had passed without issue. Yet here he was, having kept his Dad waiting while he put on his pathetic demonstration. Two would never let him hear the end of this. 

"If you are looking for your materials, Number Four, they have been relocated to the limousine. For the remainder of our session today, we will be relocating to a new location in order to provide fresh stimulation for your mind. You and I will be taking a field trip, just us."

That was new. Four, as far as he could remember, had not set foot outside the mansion since he first arrived, nor had his siblings. The outside world was a patchwork of stolen glances through doors and windows, a puzzle put together wrong. It was one of life's great mysteries for the children, each of them held their own perceptions of life beyond their house. Four found it rather exciting, a present he couldn't wait to unwrap. And now he would get to see it, feel it. The limousine was long and black, the seats much comfier than Three had led him to believe- no bones or rocks at all. Four wasn't actually sure why he'd believed her about it, it wasn't like she'd ever been in a car. Throughout the journey his gaze was glued out the windows, watching the unfamiliar landscape unfold before him. Brick buildings, tin buildings, thick building, thin buildings. Old people, new people, bold people, blue people. Each of them called him with a different song. 

The place where the car stopped was different. 

A tall, iron fence bordered the lot, a rusted set of gates the only visible entrance. As they were pushed open, they creaked ominously. The lot was really just a grassy field, with little teeth protruding in rows. At the back, one tooth stood larger than the rest. It was so large, in fact, that Four fit inside of it. He knew this, because his Dad had unlocked it and forced him inside, locking the door once he was suitably trapped. He'd had to be forced, the shadows had been speaking to him again. And there were so many shadows inside the big tooth, it was pretty much just one big pool of airy darkness. As it swallowed Four, he screamed. He screamed and he begged and he pleaded and he cried. He bawled for hours, but Reginald was unrelenting. Four would not come out until he had produced a suitable piece of work. So, eventually, Four began to draw. The shadows gained a face, a body, a voice. They gained intricate life stories, laid out on white paper. He cast the shadows from his head, banishing them to a book. When he stuttered to Reginald that he was finished, the door mercifully opened. Eagerly, Four relinquished the notebook for inspection, instead focusing his energy on sprinting to the car as fast as possible. During the return trip, Four was just as silent as before, but not out of excitement or concentration. He'd long forgotten the wonders of the public. Reginald returned the notebook upon returning home, commissioning new works due before their next session. Four did not feel the relief he had expected to at the confirmation their 'special training' was continuing. What he actually felt, felt a little bit like fear. 

* * *

It was Six, who first found him huddled in the bathtub of the bathroom they all shared. For this, Four was grateful. Four didn't feel like talking, didn't know if he could; and Six could understand that. Even on a good day, Six barely spoke, preferring to stay out of sight, out of mind. So instead of being pestered about the supposed wonders of the outside as he so feared, Four found himself wrapped in a tight embrace, holding on to his anchor for dear life. 


	8. OneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSeven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all of you who've been leaving comments, I really am grateful for them and hope you all are enjoying :)

"Square. Circle. Rectangular prism. Sphere. Triangle. Cube. Cylinder."

"9, 18, 27, 36, 45, 54."

"One-half. Two-fifths. Seven-eighths."

Five was extremely pleased with himself; his maths was going exceptionally well, Hargreeves had been well and truly impressed. As a reward, he'd been given extra study; proof at last he was capable of so much more than his siblings. They were still stuck on addition and subtraction. Ha! 

Mathematics- numbers in particular- had always come easily to Five, bringing a satisfaction he found writing and spelling did not. When the numbers aligned properly, when he solved a question perfectly, when they all organised themselves into neat little groups, he felt inherently fulfilled in a way none of his siblings seemed to understand. They called him weird, he called it ordered. Counting just made everything much more controlled, organised, and Five liked it that way. So his additional study suited him exceptionally well. He'd gone through and counted and numbered each page Hargreeves had given him (seven) and put aside a day per page. Friday; page five for himself. Saturday; page six for his brother. Sunday; page seven for his sister. Monday; page one for his other brother, and so on. 

A flawless system. Unless Hargreeves decided to use a number which was not a multiple of seven. He would have to speak to the man about it. Hargreeves liked order too, he would understand. 

He had to. 

* * *

In the recreational room, Brother John sounded again. In fact, it had been audible every single day since Seven's first training session; she had apparently been quite taken with the piano. Or was simply desperate to please Hargreeves. 

When he gave it more than a second of thought, Five realised there was no world in which it was not the latter, though she did seem to always be engrossed in her playing. Just as she was today, so caught up in her melody she took several moments to notice Five's presence. When she did, the music stopped abruptly with a missed note. 

"I'm sorry, I can go if it's bothering you."

At first, he thought that might be best, maybe peace and quiet would allow him maximum efficiency in completing his additional study, but when he went to form his sentence, something felt off. Something inside him protested it, wanted his sister to stay, wanted to make her happy. Wanted to hear her play.

"No, no, stay, please."

Seven gave a small nod, warily resuming her piece. In perfect silence, they worked together. No sound was made but the croon of the piano and the scratching of a pencil. This time, Five felt no protest. After half an hour of their steady rhythm, Seven finished her practice for the day, signified by the shuffling of her papers as they slipped into her folder. Five looked up to acknowledge her departure, their eyes met.

"Do you enjoy it? The piano?" 

"Not with Father." 

_I enjoy it with you_ \- _with anyone else_ , was left unsaid.It wasn't necessary, Five understood, all the children did. Hargreeves was not good company, though they all yearned desperately for it. 

"Do you enjoy the maths?"

"It helps me keep ordered."

Seven knew about the numbers, she knew they helped him focus. She didn't understand, but she always remembered. It was all he could ask of her. To remember he needed seven, fourteen, or twenty-one of anything. So to this, she simply nodded again. 

"You're really good- with the piano- you play it really well. It sounds just like Anne would sing it."

Mentioning Anne brought a wave of nostalgia with it. Though he'd only seen her just under a week ago, it was as though she'd never been in his life now. There was the new nanny, Grace, and the suitable threat of the Reflection Room should anyone feel the need to express longing for the women who had so abruptly entered and exited their lives. But Five was yet to completely let go, still holding on tight to the memories he had. Seven would be the only person to ever even know of his attachment to his foul-mouthed pseudo-mother, he couldn't let his other siblings know of such sentiment. He found it an unbecoming feature, though he indulged himself nonetheless. Anne may have taught him to swear at what most would call an inappropriate age, but she had also loved him. And while it irked him to admit it, he loved her too. Seven's piano was a pleasant reminder of this. With a muttered "thanks", Seven fled the room, a faint red spreading along her cheeks. Five supposed Hargreeves would not have thought to compliment her playing, rarely did he think to compliment anyone other than One. Five, confident in his own, superior intelligence, was not particularly bothered by this; the same could not be said for the others. He had assumed Two might have been the worst affected, now, he found himself reconsidering. He made a mental note to compliment Seven more, at least seven times a week. One per day. Friday, day five, one compliment completed. The system was working already. As was his study plan. With one page finished in the calm of Brother John, tomorrow page six could be done. 

Everything was working, everything was fine.

* * *

Saturday's were Five's siblings' favourite day of the week- they had their half an hour of free time from midday. Though they always found time to squeeze in fun and games across the week, their half an hour was their chance for totally unrestricted play, as long as they didn't leave the house. Six's training was even delayed so that he could join. Five did truly see the appeal in the day. It was just that he had never felt the need for the games his siblings so enjoyed. On the rare occasion they played some form of sports, he would join in, but otherwise there was no advantage he felt he could obtain from playing 'cops' or 'models' or whichever game had found its way into rotation this week. According to Four's incessant begging, it was 'Hollywood', created by Three with inspiration from her 'special training'. As usual, he faced the stock-standard pleading invitations from both Four and Three, but unexpectedly this week there was also one from both Six and Seven. It was this fact that had led Five to rationalise his atypical participation by telling himself he was helping Three's training, when in reality he knew he merely wanted to please the meeker of his siblings. Besides, it would be easier to give Seven her compliment if they were playing together, her compliment for day six. 

The seven children gathered in the recreational room, Three standing out front to explain the rules as quickly as possible in order to maximise play-time. From her explanation, Five came to understand the game as such: each of them would become one of the 'film stars' Three had become so enamoured with, pretending to dress up in the glamour and fashion of the country of Hollywood, in which they all lived. This involved all of them swapping blazers with one another to provide their costumes, and creating an imaginary spouse to follow in their adventures. To aid with this, Three had collaborated secretly with Six to create a list of names, since the others were yet to be exposed to any names beside those of their carers, and that was apparently "too weird". 

The sheet of paper was passed around, the names claimed with the writing of one's number- name- beside it. 

Five was last to receive the list, standing at the back of group watching in. He skimmed it, trying to pick a name as quickly as possible; although he was reluctant to accept it, he was becoming excited to play. 

  * Ariel
  * ~~Dave~~ (4)
  * ~~Jo~~ (7)
  * Eric
  * Satsuki
  * Bessie
  * Mei
  * ~~Daisy~~ (1)
  * ~~Patrick~~ (3)
  * Nikita
  * Dolores
  * ~~Dora~~ (2)
  * Lavender
  * Jay
  * Leonard ~~(7)~~
  * George
  * ~~Lyra~~ (6)



None of the names seemed to jump out at him, so he chose at random.

  * ~~Dolores~~ (5)



He handed the list back to Three, who examined it eagerly. She then passed around little paper people, and everyone wrote their chosen name down on their 'spouse'. Three then announced that they were ready to play. Five went to his assigned city, bringing Dolores along with him. In the next twenty minutes, together they starred in films all over the world, even entering what Four called a "zombie apocalypse". As a couple, they even won an Oscar for being the fastest to escape the zombies. When Hargreeves came to collect Six for his training and announce the end of free-time, Five actually felt disappointed the clock had run out. When Hargreeves demanded they toss all their paper into the bin, he stuck Dolores up his shirt and pretended to have misplaced her when confronted. He noticed that Two, Three and Four all held onto theirs as well. 

While most of the children left the room in an attempt to squeeze even just a few more minutes of play out, Five sat down on the recreational desk and began page six. Seven also remained, continuing to practice her piano as though her life depended on mastering the instrument before Sunday. 

"I think Jo's an extremely clever name, Seven. You two did were did very well in the fantasy film."

Brother John paused. 

"Thanks, Five. I think Dolores is a nice name too."

His pencil stopped scratching. 

"Yeah, she's really something."

There was no sound in the recreational room for exactly one-hundred-and-twenty seconds. 

* * *

That night, Five returned once more to the recreational room, this time not for study or play. He was on a mission. Scanning the room, he spotted the trashcan Hargreeves had gestured to earlier that day. He dug through it until he found the paper person bearing Seven's tidy handwriting.

The next morning, Seven would awake to find Jo waiting on her beside table.


	9. Devil Like Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the spider refusing to leave my shower. Also have you guys seen the season 2 trailer because I did and I may or may not have cried :/
> 
> Also, just a note, it's not too graphic, but there is a bit of violence towards animals in this, so if like me, it's upsetting for you, be safe.

'Special training' had actually started out quite promising for Six. At least, he'd been significantly less distraught than Four had been after his; that was until the cockroach appeared. It had been peaceful, just him and his Dad sitting in silence in one of the formal living rooms, Six reading and the other scribbling furiously in his journal as usual. Six liked August a lot, in a way their names were kind of similar. Six was named for a number, August for a month; he wondered if this was a common feature for boys his age, being named after concepts and constructs. He didn't really like the name 'Six', it didn't sound very heroic or inspiring, August, he felt, was better. But if he had his choice, he thought he'd really just like a normal name, maybe like Jack or Charlotte. Anything to make him feel a little bit normal. In that aspect, Six concluded he and August were most alike. He wasn't sure what exactly it was about him that made him feel so peculiar, maybe it was the strange red markings that ran along his stomach in splotches. Vera had said they were perfectly normal, harmless, natural- but he knew none of siblings had strange blemishes along their skin. 

Maybe it was selfish of him to want them gone, when he could hide them so easily compared to August, but Six hated them. Couldn't bear to leave his stomach exposed. And maybe that was why he felt especially calm today, because he could resonate so well with his hero-of-the-week. 

The storm erupted in the form of a shiny, black, bug. It had been flickering in and out of Six's line of sight for the past twenty minutes, scurrying away each time Six did his double take. When the cockroach crawled across his leg, however, he screamed, legs shaking desperately, flinging the insect across the room.

"Number Six? What is the meaning of this?"

Mind paralysed, Six merely pointed to the invasive critter.

"I cannot see the problem, Number Six, simply kill it and return to your training at once."

That sat even worse with Six, imaging the bug crushed beneath his shoe sending waves of nausea throughout his body. Already, he could hear the crunch it would make, the squelch of its organs splattered on the floorboards. Would it stick to his shoe? What if it couldn't come off; the blood and appendages?

"But Dad, I can't just kill it, it's a living thing! Why should my fear warrant its death?" Six questioned, throat immediately drying at the thought of what he had just done. He'd said no to his Dad, he'd said no, said _no._

And his Dad was angry like Six had never seen him before. A sharpness gleamed in his eyes, cold, calculating and furious. It was worse than the cockroach, _where was that stupid bug now?_

His cheek was stinging, he wasn't sure why. There was yelling, poking, prodding, pushing, shoving; a ringing in his head he couldn't decipher. It wanted to him to obey, to listen, to man up, step up, grow up. 

All he registered was the dreaded crunch, squelch, splat. 

What had he done?

* * *

Number Six had always been an interesting case for Dr Hargreeves. The boy displayed the same timidness and weakness as Number Seven, but had a clear cut system of values and ethics present throughout his every decision. He had theorised it had developed from the child's love of literature, the way he immersed himself completely in every novel he read, but what he truly wanted to know was how far this moral code could be stretched. Number Six had been reluctant, fearful to kill the cockroach, but responded remarkably well to a more... physical directive. After the interruption had been suitably dealt with, Reginald returned to his journal with renewed vigour. The boy's moral code seemed to be malleable, the extent to which it was so now had to be determined. What other 'unethical' deeds would he commit if pressured correctly?

Not too far from the cemetery, there was a patch of relatively dense woods. Perhaps not for today, but in the future, it would be ideal. 

They could begin with mousetraps.

* * *

Six was only permitted to return to his novel momentarily before his Father was dragging him to the metal box he'd taken Seven in merely days ago. However, their end destination did not reveal a grand piano or instrument of any sort. Instead, it seemed to be more of a storage basement, the ones family's kept their Christmas decorations in. 

There were no baubles or tinsel in the Hargreeves' mansion. 

There were a surprising amount of spring traps. They looked a little like the locks on the flour jar in the kitchen. The ones he'd caught his pointer finger in. 

His Father made him spend an hour loading them with cheese, for a purpose Six did not understand. It seemed a bit wasteful, especially when his Father started directing him to hide them across the mansion. He challenged Six to find even the smallest hiding places for them, to secrete them away in the darkest corners possible. Intrigued by the apparent game, Six went along with the challenge, doing his very best to spread them evenly across the city block. After the incident in the living room, Six had not the courage to question his Father's orders.

In hindsight, he knew why his cheek had stung. Knew why he could make out faint finger shapes in the mirror whilst he hid a cheese-loaded springboard in the bathtub. And though the wet patch on his sole made him wince internally with every step, he lacked the daring to even stop and bury the creature. He did not need his cheeks to become a matching set. Silently, he begged the insect's forgiveness. Desperately hoped it didn't have a family awaiting its return. As he placed the final contraption in the pantry, three tears slipped down his face, quickly wiped away by black cloth. 

Still, his Father refrained from commenting on the exercise's purpose. Still, Six refrained from asking. They returned to the living room, Six was permitted to return to his novel. Escaping in the far-off, familiar world, he could almost ignore the black splatter just a metre from where he sat.

Almost. 

After several more hours of tense silence, his Father stood abruptly. 

"Come, Number Six, to admire your handiwork."

Not another word was spoken between them. Six did not dare think on what his handiwork was. A sickening pulp came to mind. Together, they visited each spot Six had hidden the boards, marked by his Father in his journal. The first ten were unchanged, Six was growing increasingly confused as to their purpose. Was it simply an exercise in mechanics? He supposed that made sense, it would be a useful skill for one to develop. His illusion was shattered when they reached the eleventh trap, the final trap, the one he'd hidden in the pantry. His attention had been caught by a broken squeaking coming from behind its wooden doors. Hesitantly, he opened the creaking doors. 

And dropped to his knees.

And crumbled. 

His next moves were a hazy blur. He remembered sobbing, pleading, crying out his apologies more times than he could count. The broken, furry body in front of him, writhing fruitlessly under the metal bar would not leave his mind. He closed his eyes and there it was, haunting him. Six knew he must have run at some point, because he somehow ended up back in the bathtub he'd held Four in just days ago, losing his breakfast and lunch to the guilt, horror, loathing, that filled his stomach past its brim. He was overflowing, like a dam in a storm. 

Coincidentally, it was Four who found him. His brother slipped into the tub with him, uncaring of the sick that filled it. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay, your training's all done for today, Reg- Dad told us."

Though Six felt some relief at that, in the grander scheme it meant nothing. He couldn't take back his actions, couldn't bring back the stupid cockroach or screeching mouse. He'd killed them.

He'd killed them.

Maybe he wasn't as much like August as he thought. He was probably a lot more like Julian. 

Who was he kidding? He was much worse than that.

Through his disgust, Four's hands continued to ground him, rubbing his back, returning him to the present.

"You want me to get Grace? Two said she knows first-aid stuff, you look pretty sick."

Frantically, Six shook his head. The last thing he deserved was help. He deserved the pain, the sickness, the hurt. Karma. He'd read about it somewhere. That's what it was.

"I don't wanna go back to training, never again Four. You were right, it's awful, I hate it, I just wanna go back to normal. Why can't we just go back to normal?" The sobbing returned, tears gushing from Six's cheeks down to Four's blazer. Neither noticed their soiled uniforms.

"I don't want to go back either."

A solemn silence passed between the boys. Both only imagining the horrors the other was dreading, none of them brave enough to voice what they'd endured.

"What are we gonna do, Six? You're the smart one, right?"

Six wished he wasn't smart; maybe then his Father never would have taken him to the living room to begin with. "I think he's going to make us go back. I'm not so sure we can just not go."

Four nodded dejectedly. Both knew it was the truth. 'Special' training was inevitable.

"But you'll be here for me after, yeah? I'll wait for you too."

Four held out his pinky. Six joined his with it. 

"Yeah, I'll be here, I promise."


	10. A Change of Heart and Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this took so much longer than usual, the last week has been a bit of a train wreck for me. I'm gonna try and get back to updates every few days, but I am starting back at school in a couple of days so apologies in advance if they slow because of that.  
> Also side note, why are acrylics so hard to type with?

Ever since she'd read Three and Six's list of names, Seven couldn't help but feel resentment towards her own. Having- to her knowledge- left the mansion, she didn't being named after a number was already a peculiarity, but she had already caught onto the crudely hidden ranking system that had been used to rank her and her siblings. It had hurt, the realisation that even since birth- adoption- her Father had considered her inferior, but it had only made her determined to prove him wrong. Maybe a new name would be just the thing to let him see how special she could be; a chance for him to look beyond her name- number. 

But where to get a name from? Seven hardly knew any.

The name list had already been ravaged, any worthwhile names 'dibsed' by her siblings during their weekly round of Hollywood- the game had taken the children by a storm over the last couple of years. Her growing piano folder found its way into her arms. Maria? Elise? William? Claire? Sure, they sounded nice in her head, but how would she know if they suited her. She'd have to ask someone who knew about names.

Three's door was slippery as she knocked, as though freshly polished. It always was, whenever Seven visited at least. Three's door was an apt depiction of the girl in Seven's eyes; sleek, glamorous and shiny. And as Seven always did, she knocked shyly, softly, afraid to disturb her 'betters'. She herself refused to think about it like that, but she knew her Father had no such reservations about his own thoughts. 

"One? Is that you? Just one second, I'll be right out!"

Ah. One. Of course Three was expecting him, or was at least hoping for him. How would she even begin to compare, First against Seventh? Dejected, the piano called her once more. Surely her form could use an hour more of Canon.

God, she was sick of that song. 

Behind her, the telltale creak of an opening door sounded. 

"One? You there? Seven! Did you just see One around my door?"

It was only out of politeness that Seven turned to face her sister. "No, sorry. Have fun with him though." 

Without giving Three time to process any veiled resentment in her words, Seven walked down the corridor towards the recreation room. As she passed Four's room, silent only because it was his day for training, there was a light tap at her shoulder.

Before even looking, she talking. "Three, I already told you I didn't see One, he's probably-"

She finished spinning and found herself face-to-face with Five instead. _Such an idiot, berating your best friend for something he didn't even do._

"I'd ask why Three was looking for One, but then I remembered, I don't really care. And, that is because, I- Five- was looking for you- Seven."

Smiling sheepishly, she tried to will the red-faced shame look away. "I'm so sorry Five, I just wasn't paying attention and I-"

Five cut her off with a hand cupped over her mouth. She tried to protest, but her complaints were incomprehensibly muffled by said hand.

"It's alright Seven, really, don't worry about it." His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke. "I came to get you, because in the inner pocket of my blazer I have Jo and Dolores. I have finished my homework- Page Four, Day Four- I know you've practiced plenty today- don't deny it, I heard you-, would you like to join me for a game of Zombie Apocalypse?"

Beneath Five's hand, Seven's mouth twisted into a smile as she murmured her approval as best she could. 

* * *

Zombie Apocalypse had developed as a subbranch of Hollywood after Four had introduced the rest of the children to the genre. Though all six of his siblings were yet to figure out just how he had learnt about it, they had all enjoyed it- particularly Five. Five had, in fact, enjoyed it so much, he'd taken to playing it with Seven in the bathroom outside of their free time period. Despite the chill of the bathroom and distinct lack of room, it was the best possible option for illicit play as there was yet to be any cameras secreted throughout the room by their Father. Even though he was not currently watching the monitors, being occupied with Four's training, the children had learnt the hard way long ago that he still reviewed the tapes for every hour he was not around to watch them. Since realising the lack of surveillance in their personal bathroom, it had become a haven for all seven of them; they'd determined if they left at least a five minute gap between their entrances, they could fit up to three of them in without suspicion being raised.

It was this very strategy Five and Seven were utilising to sneak away and play today. Once safely secreted behind the locked bathroom door, Five produced two crudely decorated paper dolls labelled Dolores and Jo, the latter being handed to Seven. In earnest, they dove into the rich and fascinating wasteland them and their paramours were stranded in as they fought off decrepit hordes of the undead. It was while Jo and Seven were stranded at the peak of Mt. Semi-Sphere, or simply, the shower-head, that Seven thought to bring up names to her brother. 

"Five, have you ever felt like maybe our names aren't exactly... normal? Felt like maybe you'd prefer a name more like Jo or Dolores?"

"Huh. Guess I haven't really." Five sat and contemplated Seven's words for a few moments, reading the scrawl along his beloved's back which spelt out her name. After collecting his thoughts, he spoke again. "No, I'm happy with Five. It'd mess up all the days if I was suddenly called Patrick or Dave."

Seven knew her brother had a penchant for organising his life around their numbers and corresponding names, so she supposed she could understand that part of it. "But doesn't it feel like it's just Fath- Dad saying we're inferior to everyone whose got a higher number than us? Doesn't that make you feel angry or sad or useless?"

Five just shrugged. "Who cares what Hargreeves says? His whole number system is bullshit anyway. All it means is that we just have to show him how badly he screwed up putting us at the end. And when we've done that, we get to turn to him and say, 'this is what your "worst" children did without any of your goddamn help'. But don't let him get to you Seven, don't think all those ridiculous lies about yourself, because if you do, he wins." By the end of his speech, Five was standing on an old stool from the children's toddler years, voice raised and finger pointing. 

The speech had been rather inspiring, but it had failed to convince Seven that renaming herself wasn't an option. Somewhere inside her mind a little voice told her her feelings weren't lies, that her Father would never admit he'd been wrong about her ranking. In the end, the little voice won, but she didn't have the heart to admit it to Five. Besides, she didn't want to threaten his systems, Seven was the only one who even remotely understood how important they were to him. So on the outside, she nodded her head and smiled, while her self-worth continued to crumble on the inside. 

* * *

Exiting the bathroom after secret play was the same strategy as entering the bathroom; each child snuck out five minutes apart, as nonchalantly as possible to minimise unwanted attention. Five, having entered first, exited first, and Seven was left alone for four and half minutes. Just as her time was about to be up, there was a knock at the door. Instinctively, she invited the knocker in, almost immediately reprimanding herself for it. When the white door opened, it revealed a momentarily confused Two, who only needed to take in Seven's clothed position in the bathtub and the paper in her hand to realise what he had walked in on. He mouthed an apology and shut the door swiftly behind him before joining her in the surprisingly spacious bathtub. 

"S-So," he whispered, mindful of the bathroom's echo, "w-w-what were y-you and F-FF-Five playing?"

Seven's heart immediately started an attempt to crawl its way out her chest. "How did you know? Please, please, don't tell F- Dad about it, or One, because you know he'll just tell too. Please, Two, please."

Cautiously, he reached out and placed a grounding hand on her shoulder. 

"L-lucky guess, I sup-pp-pose. D-Don' worry, I won't t-tell Dad. I come here t-tt-too."

Of course he did. _Idiot._ She'd even once been here with Two and Six- it'd been an accident, they'd all been feeling particularly anxious after an abnormally tense dinner and had sought shelter in the sterile glow of the room- how could she have forgotten?

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. We were just playing with our spouses, I guess. Yours is Dora, right?" Timidly, Two nodded, pulling a folded slip of paper from his blazer, unfolding it to reveal Dora herself. As he held her up, he grinned proudly.

"Yeah! Mine's Dora, y-you've got Jo, right?" It was Seven's turn to beam. Sitting and chatting about their wives brought Seven back to her earlier conversation with Five, and attempted conversation with Three.

"Hey, Two, have you ever wanted a different name? Like one that's not a number?"

At that, Two began fidgeting with his hands. "Mmhm, I r-r-rr-really wan-t a n-new one. I jj-just wis-sh One w-asn't-t alw-w-ways au-automa-tically b-best." Seven pressed her hand against his shaking one and nodded her understanding. "Mum has a nice na-me."

"Mum?"

Two's eyes opened in horror as he processed his own words. "I-I-I mm-mean-nn Grace, sh-sh-shit-tt, d-didn't mean-n t-t-to s-say that."

The glass framing the painting of Two's life was being rapidly cleaned for Seven. Why he spent so much time in the kitchen "helping" with dinner, always defended Grace whenever something went wrong with her programming. She'd become his mother.

Two was playing with his hands again, refusing any form of eye contact.

Inside Seven's mind, a distant memory illuminated itself. Gently, she nudged her spiralling brother.

"You know, I read somewhere that it's normally the mum's who name their children."

Two's head lifted from his lap, and his gaze finally returned hers, as did his smile. "T-th-then, all-llow me to reint-troduce you to Mum."

He held the door open for her, and together they dashed towards the kitchen, eager to enact their plot. 


	11. Birthday Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay (again), but this one is longer to make up for it! It's also a very different structure, so let me know what you think and if you have any preferences going forwards. Sorry for the sporadic updates, I will try and sort out an updating schedule soon.

Over the past few weeks, One's Training had taken a different approach. Instead of the usual heavy labour, typically involving One carrying various objects across the house until he physically couldn't anymore, he'd been watching what his Dad called television. It was quite different from Three's films, this was supposed to be real, unscripted. His Dad called it sports, and seemed to have a particular passion for 'boxing'. One was only just starting to understand the point of the sport- at first it had seemed rather senseless to him, all the punching and yelling- but after watching several hours a week at least three weeks straight, he was getting rather invested in it. As per his Dad's instructions, he'd even begun to make note of the strategies the 'boxers' were utilising each round, how they catered for the size and strength of their different opponents. Today, they were finally moving on from the theory. One's Dad had gotten him a 'punching bag', so that he could train like the players on the television. This excited One for a number of reasons, but most forefront in his mind was the idea he could begin to 'bulk-up', as he'd heard one of the commentators put it. The men he watched on television he knew were incredibly strong, bulging muscles the embodiment of his aspiration. If he possessed strength as abundantly as his new-found idols, maybe he'd finally prove himself as a leader. 

After receiving his punching bag, One began to hide away in the gymnasium for hours on end, practicing and perfecting. He'd gotten that idea from Six, he'd said it was from one of his books. One wasn't all that big on reading- not that his Dad had found it necessary for him to own any- but he appreciated the theory. Practice, practice, practice, until he was perfect. Better than perfect. He knew the standards he needed to uphold as a leader, knew the example he needed to set. Though the idea was abhorrent to him, he realised he had become just like Seven; slaving away, secluded and alone, trying to outdo themselves day in, day out. But unlike Seven, he was what his Dad referred to as a 'natural-born leader'. Seven fell more into the category of 'sheep', it was simple genetics- or something like that. His Dad was the scientist, not him, One just listened like a good soldier. The punching bag slammed repeatedly into the wall, a satisfying smack identifying every successful hit. Surely, next Training, he would have his Dad's approval. Surely, he'd done enough this time. 

Gloved hands wrapped around his waist and tackled One to the ground. 

"What the hell, Two?"

The smaller boy grinned mischievously in response. "W-w-we're h-having a f-family m-mmeeting. In the bb-bathroom. M-me and y-y-you have to g-ggo in together."

One did not find this remotely acceptable. "That doesn't explain why you had to tackle me. Also, why wasn't I involved in planning the meeting? I'm Number One." He got up off the floor, brushing imagined dust off his person for emphasis. 

"W-well, mm-maybe you wwon't b-be aft-tter the meeting." Two tried to mumble under his breath, and failed spectacularly. 

"I heard that. What does that mean?" When Two refused to explain himself, One decided a more 'hands-on' approach would be necessary. Using the strategies he'd been studying in Training, he quickly pinned his brother beneath him. "Tell me! Tell me what that means!"

Despite the clear authority and charge One had of the situation, his impertinent brother refused to yield. 

"Y-you'll hha-have to g-go to the m-meeting and f-find out-t."

A heavy thump landed on the gym floor as it was struck by a head of umber hair. 

* * *

Two's head really, really hurt. His eyes were even a bit fuzzy, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Him and One were due shortly at the meeting, there was no time to waste. Two was incredibly excited as he walked beside his fuming brother. If all went to plan, he'd no longer be anyone's subordinate.

Then, free from bias, he could really begin to prove himself. 

Using the five-minute rule as always, the unwilling pair entered the mansion's nineteenth bathroom, five pairs of eyes falling on them as the door creaked shut behind them. Of all of them, he singled out Seven's, waiting for a sign to begin. She'd insisted he do the talking, and he'd agreed. He was a much better leader than Seven.

_Be a lot better if you could actually tal-_

Not now. He didn't need that now. He had a brief to give. 

_Picture the word in your mind._ He could do it. He'd be fine. 

"Th-thank you a-all for c-coming. We're h-here be-c-cause I think- and S-SS-Seven tt-too- that we sh-sh-should have b-better names. 'Cause, it's-s not f-fair that the n-num-b-bers are..." _Idiot. Idiot. Why did you forget the word- HOW did you forget the word?_

"... biased."

Two flashed a grateful smile towards Seven sitting at the back of the bathroom, pressed against the cabinet. "Yeah. B-biased."

Four voices immediately cried out in outrage, agreement, excitement and query. 

One, naturally, had both the loudest voice and most abundant dissent. "That's ridiculous! Dad chose our names for a reason, why would be able to do any better than him? And besides, I actually like my name. Just because you guys are jealous-"

To Two's shock, it was Seven who interrupted One's tyrannous rant with a rather brutal slap to the face.

"We're not _jealous_ , One, we're just sick and tired of you and F- Dad thinking that you're the only important person in this house because of a name he picked when you were still in diapers."

An impressed and awed silence fell around the room, until Three broke it by once again affirming her agreement with Two- yet another surprise to all six other children.

"I actually think we should get better names. I've watched a lot of movies and I haven't _ever_ seen someone named after a number. It seems kind of stupid to me, really."

Astounded by the support coming from one of his higher-ranking siblings, Two stammered out his thanks. Four was next to add his opinion, face carved into a rather wicked grin.

"This is an excellent idea, Two. Anything to disrupt Reggie's nefarious plots for our adolescence."

One was particularly enflamed by that. "Show some respect, Four. Dad doesn't deserve your petty insolence."

In response, Four merely smiled wider. "Sure, sure he doesn't, Number One."

At the back of room, seated besides Seven, Six raised perhaps the most pertinent question. 

"Who's going to pick our new names? I don't think we should let Dad pick them again."

Two, Three, Four and Seven all nodded their agreement. 

"Th-tha-at's why M-mum is gonna p-p-pick them instead."

* * *

Though all of the children besides Two and Seven had been confused by the notion of a 'Mum', Three, with the most understanding of what a mother was supposed to be, was most perplexed. Her first instinct had been to ask when their Dad had suddenly gotten married, an idea Two had found abhorrent. Of course, he'd then gone on to explain why the strange robot who had come to replace Antionette was now 'Mum' to him; she let him help with the cooking, tended to his ailments, had even come to say goodnight to him on several occasions. And while that did match Three's prior knowledge in the field of parents- particularly mothers- it still seemed strange that this parental love and affection should appear to them now, instead of almost eight years ago when they'd first been adopted. But in the interest of gaining a nice, normal name, Three kept her musings to herself. Instead, she followed her siblings to the charging station Two and Seven had assured them Grace- no, it was Mum now, she had to remember- would be waiting. 

Sure enough, she sat in a curved chair sewing, making strange vibrations with her mouth. When her eyes reached the children, her face lit up in a warm smile, the likes of which Three couldn't even imagine upon her Dad's face. 

"Why, hello there children! How did your little meeting go?"

Three turned sharply to Two. "You told her about the meeting, about the bathroom? What if she tells Dad?" This was bad, really bad. Her and One used the bathroom all the time to have secret meetings of their own, Three wasn't sure what they would do should their hideaway become exposed so completely.

Two looked ready to leap to Grace- her Mum's- defence, but the robot beat him to it. 

"No need to worry dear, your Father remains oblivious to your little gathering. I simply can't imagine what benefit it would do him if he knew." Again, the genuine smile filled her face- did her cheerful demeanor not ever fade? Three could not fathom what response- attitude, formality- would be appropriate, so she stuck to muttering her understanding. Her Mother- there, that worked for now- then went back to address Two and Seven. "And what decision did you all come to? Should I begin browsing?" 

Two's face too seemed much brighter than Three had ever seen. "Y-yeah, th-th-thank-ks M-mum. T-that'd be g-gr-great!"

"Well, I better get started then! Did any of you have any preferences for your names?" 

Three couldn't care less about the specifics of her name, she just wanted to ditch the boring number. What good would a movie star be with a name like 'Three'? The very thought was laughable. She needed something glamorous, yet typical. She didn't need anyone mocking her name for being weird or odd. She honestly had felt her siblings would feel the same way ad was thus surprised to see Five, who had not said a word throughout the entire name debacle, politely raise his hand.

Her Mother nodded sweetly at her brother to go ahead.

"While I thank you for the offer to aid us all in breaking free of the rather heavily restricting order our names have locked us into, I would actually prefer not to receive a name."

Confusion broke out amongst the children. Why on Earth would Five want to _keep_ the unimaginative burdens placed upon them by their Dad. Though Three could understand perhaps caution around the collection of an even worse name, surely the risk was minimal enough compared to the enormous gains on offer to them. Even One, instilled with so much confident and assurance by his own number had agreed to a re-naming out of fear of being ostrachised by his brothers and sisters. 

"But Five, don't you to get one at least to piss Reginald off?" Though Four seemed to be just slightly missing the point, Three couldn't say it was the wrong tactic to appeal to Five with.

"None of you would understand, but there's a whole system which exists surrounding our numbers and corresponding days, it'd just mess everything up for me, okay? You can all get your new, empowering names; but I'd much prefer to just stay Five. Besides, I'm not so insecure that I can't see past Dad's manipulation techniques to see my own intelligence."

Ahh. So it was just Five being Five. Well, he could keep his stupid number, Three'd show him. He'd probably get jealous of their human names and repent soon enough anyways. Because, seriously, who wanted their legal name to be 'Five'?

* * *

Four was incredibly excited to be receiving his new name. After having spent the last few weeks leading up to his eight birthday in anticipation, getting to know his 'Mum', the day had finally arrived. To an observer- such as Reginald- the day was completely normal. Children number One, Two, Four, Five, Six and Seven had attended their scheduled lessons with Pogo, while Three went off to complete her 'special' training. There were no deviations, no celebrations, no mention of the fact the children had now spent eight years on this planet- but tonight, things would change. Four's Mum had promised that she would have decided their names in time for them to be a birthday promise, and despite years of disappointment from his other parental figure, Four actually trusted his Mum to keep her word. 

Four had never been particularly concerned about his number or rank, but he found the whole schtick rather uninspired. Sure, the occasional mutter of "disappointment" scorned him, he had just learned to block it out. He may be a "disappointment", a "failure"; at least he'd never be a cold-hearted bastard like Reginald. One might stand a chance of it, but never Four. It was his second and greatest vow. Besides his first, his despondent oath to Six. More and more often they found each other wrecked in that bathtub, broken by the man so desperately trying to manufacture them. Though Four was yet to fully grasp the concept from his lessons, he was almost certain that the situation could be deemed ironic. 

Thankfully, today promised not end with two brothers clutching desperately to any semblance of stability, wasting away underneath an unsympathetic light. Today, the got their names, their fresh start, their freedom. The first step towards leaving Reggie and his torturous training behind. Six said adults didn't live with their parents. Five said that meant only ten years to go, from today. Two said that was ten years too many. 

Four tended to agree.

Dinner that night was one of the longest Four could remember ever having to endure, despite not deviating from the schedule by even a single minute. Upon the children's dismissal, anticipation broke free of the paper shackles previously restraining it. Rare glee polluted the house's dead air, seven sets of feet following the bright humming of hope. And whilst the silence was not atypical, the excited tension that filled it most certainly was. As he walked, Four felt he rather liked it. A quick glance at his siblings confirmed the feeling as mutual. Companionship undid the bonds of solitude and jealously. A united cause, undoing years division. Or so it felt. The long term consequences of their small rebellion were yet to be revealed. 

As their Mum performed the finishing touches on their secret birthday cupcakes, Hargreeves One through Seven took a seat around the low kitchen table, animosity at an all time low. 

* * *

Having expressed his disinterest in receiving a name, Five's appearance in the kitchen had come as a surprise to the majority of his siblings. As usual, they failed to understand his perspective on the matter. There was a clear system in place, designed to keep everything orderly, which was now being disrupted; and while Five could sympathise with his siblings' desires, it was unfortunately coming at the cost of structure. Thus, he would have to become familiar with each sibling's new name and the rationale behind it, in order to devise a new or altered system around which he could live. At least now he might gain the ability to sort them alphabetically- having Two and Three, Four and Five, and Six and Seven was a nightmare in that logistical sense.

Grace- or Mum, as he was supposed to refer to her as now- began passing out buttercream topped cakes to each child. As the platter circled the table, Five noted the intentional lack of numerical order to the entire affair. The seating had been chosen by preference, the cupcakes unique, yet personalised- and without even a mention of any of their numbers at all. For One, a rocket ship, a tribute to his recent fixation with the great void of space and its exploration. Two's bore a mask, a tribute to his ongoing attempts to make himself a hero like those he so admired. Three received her own 'Hollywood Star', a supposed symbol of talent and fame in the outside world. Four, for some inexplicable reason, had been given a spider- somehow it made sense to both him and Six, based on the knowing look they shared with each other. For himself, there was a tie- Grace, his Mum, had taken to referring to him as "her little businessman". Whilst he brushed it off, he was becoming rather attached to the endearment and connection that accompanied it. Six's cupcake again appeared to be another inside joke with Four; a small brown mouse. He supposed he couldn't bear them too much judgement for it though. Finally, Seven had her violin, a tribute to the new instrument she had just recently undertaken. There was no quantitive arrangement to the cakes, but the sentiment attached to the personal decorations did hold an unusual acknowledgement towards their individuality Five found himself slowly understanding the appeal of. 

After an ever-painful rendition of 'Happy Birthday' and the customary extinguishing of seven candles, seven heads turned expectantly towards their mother. Even without any desire for a name, Five was becoming anxious for the big reveal. 

"Right! I'm sure you're all very eager to hear the names I've picked out for you, so I suppose I might as well start now." Grace's- his Mum's- smile was radiant as ever. Five secretly thought it was odd Hargreeves would have created a companion who juxtaposed his own demeanor so completely. "I wanted to make it special for all of you, so if you all lift up your cakes, you'll find surprise waiting for you." 

One, Two, Three, Four, Six and Seven all hastily followed their Mum's instructions, animated gasps following their completion. While his siblings enthusiastically swapped their custom plates, painted with their new names, Five was addressed personally.

"Now, Five, I know you said you didn't want a name, but-"

"I don't."

His Mum's smile didn't even flicker with his interruption. "I know, but if you ever change your mind, all you have to do it is say. And also, don't think you didn't get a present just because you didn't get a name."

When he lifted his cake to see the eloquent calligraphy spelling out his name, something suspiciously close to tears threatened to leave his eyes. It was still just a number, but somehow, in that moment, it became well and truly _his._

* * *

Ben loved his name. In every way, it was all he could have asked for; simple, normal, pleasant. Personally he felt their Mum had done an extremely tactful job in selecting each of their names, each one matched its recipient in a way he couldn't quite put words to. He wasn't alone in his feelings, Four- Klaus, had not stopped chanting their names for the past twenty minutes since the big reveal. The words had developed a rhythm to them now, it was almost becoming a song. Ben kept finding himself pressing replay. The melody was incredibly soothing.

The entire day had gone almost suspiciously well; his Father had barely interacted with them, their lessons had been slackened discreetly to accomodate for festivities and dinner had been followed by the rare inclusion of dessert in the evening schedule. The cupcakes had been perfect, exactly as he and Klaus had envisioned when they'd first made special requests for their designs. It had been Klaus' idea, another small revolt against their Father; turning the subject of their demons into harmless icing. While Klaus had had some questionable ideas in the past, the cakes were certainly not among them. It had been therapeutic, destroying his nightmares in celebration of his growth. Sitting beside his brother on the edge of their favourite seat- the rather unfortunate bathtub- he relayed his thoughts out loud. 

"I'm glad we did the cupcakes."

"It was really great, wasn't it?"

Ben smiled and nodded, reminiscing fondly. It definitely had been. "Though I wonder how F- Dad's going to take the news of our new names. I wouldn't want to be the one to tell him."

In response, Klaus blanched and grimaced, horror written across his face. At the thought of his Father's ire, Ben's hand subconsciously brushed across his stomach, fingers stroking habitually up and down, backwards and forwards. His mouth was rather dry, he tried to moisten his lips and failed. A light tremble spread across his body, only halted when a separate pair of hands took his own.

"Hey. It's gonna be alright, okay? And Mum said you can't agitate it."

Ben flung his hands aggressively from the 'it' in question. The irritated patch of scabs blossoming atop his hateful birthmarks. "I know." 

Two pairs of arms entwined. "I know too."

Despite the uncaring glow surrounding them, sitting while his brother dutifully cleaned, disinfected and rewrapped his stomach, Ben felt a buzz of contentment coursing through him. 

"Thanks, Klaus." He grinned knowingly as his brother looked up in amusement.

"No worries, Ben."

Maybe this work.

* * *

As Ben and Klaus had taken the bathroom, Vanya and Five stowed away in the recreational room. Perched somewhat rigidly at the edge of the lounge, she unwound at the site of her pristine violin standing proudly beside the piano. She'd already learnt Brother John for Five- Frère Jacques for Allison- and had spent the last few nights attempting to translate as much of her piano folder across as possible.

"So, Vanya, what do you think?" Straight to the point; Five, direct as always. 

"I love it. Mum said it's used quite a bit in Russia, where I was born. Does it work for your system? Because you can always just call me Seven privately, if it helps." The last thing Vanya needed to do was alienate Five in her desperate attempt to gain her Father's affection. When it was boiled down to basics, the choice between the two was abundantly clear. She knew her Father didn't really deserve such devotion from her, she just somehow couldn't help it seeping into her head whenever she fell. Her most poisonous of aspirations was rather unfortunately her most fundamental clutch. 

"That won't be necessary, though I thank you for your consideration. I believe I will be able to utilise a system of alphabetical arrangement in correspondence to weekdays, otherwise, I shall endeavor to use our numbers only privately and for logistical reasons. Since you have respected my decision to abstain from conventional naming structures, I shall respect yours and use your chosen term of address."

Vanya couldn't help but chuckle at her brother's speech. "Why do you always speak so formally, Five? It makes you sound like Fa- Dad."

Five shuffled awkwardly in his seat.

Oh. Of course. That was entirely the point.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"It's fine, Vanya, just... just forget about it."

Outwardly, she nodded, but inwardly she cursed herself. The moment was ruined, turned bitter by her careless tongue. As if she'd summoned a devil, the callous voice of her dreams and nightmares sounded behind her.

"Number Five, what did you just call Number Seven?"

No, no, no, no. Oh god, he'd heard, she'd ruined it for everyone, hadn't she? _So goddamned selfish. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

In the smallest voice she'd ever heard Five use, he repeated her name to the looming figure above. 

"Apologise to Number Seven immediately. In order be respected, one must extend that respect to others, and this begins with addressing people with the _correct_ appellations."

Vanya didn't think she'd ever seen Five hang his head, he was cowed by no one, not even On- Luther. _And it was all her imbecilic fault._

"It's okay, Dad. I asked him to call me Vanya. Mum gave some of us new names today, to maybe sometimes use instead of the numbers." Her last few words were all but a whisper, voice abandoning her with her courage. 

Her Father hummed disappointedly, before leaving without further comment, Five following almost as soon as their Father's frame disappeared from sight- despite Vanya's desperate yet vain attempts to apologise incessantly. Deflated, she put herself to bed all the while berating her dull-witted mind. Though religion had never been introduced to the children formally, Vanya found herself praying to an unknown watcher for her Father's silence on the matter. For the entire affair to be brushed aside, confined to this night alone. When she drifted off to sleep without the interruption of an irate lecture, she convinced herself she'd maybe, just maybe gotten lucky.

But when she entered the bathroom the next morning, she was greeted by the intrusive yet familiar glare of her Father's surveillance cameras. 


	12. Afterglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I may or may not have watched Season 2 in one sitting as soon as it premiered. Not to worry though, no spoilers here. I most likely won't be following much or any of season 2 in this fic, and if I do, I can assure you it won't be for quite a while. However, if you have already seen it and like me need to vent, come find me on twitter @damagedpickle

It was typical of Sev- Vanya- to ruin their new names before they even got a chance to use them. Maybe it wasn't fair to blame it all on her, from the way Five described the incident, it did sound completely accidental and circumstantial- but that didn't mean Diego wasn't angry about it. How his Dad had discovered they'd been using the bathroom for meetings he was yet to understand, but what he did know what that his buried hopes of leeching onto every shred of confidence his new name provided him was gone. His Dad didn't care if he was Diego, Dora or even Luther, all he cared was that Diego was Two. Second. Inferior in every capacity to his taller, stronger, more perfect than perfect brother. He'd learnt that the hard way in his latest training session. Strategically, he neglected to mention his preferred term of endearment at every shout of "Number Two", gritting his teeth and focusing on perfection instead- but it hadn't been enough. Never mind that he'd hit every target almost dead centre, _almost_ wasn't good enough. 

_Almost_ wasn't perfect; and today his Dad had assured him that was exactly what he'd never be.

"Diligence is an admirable trait, Number Two, but there is a point at which it gives way to natural talent. A point which without such talent, one will never progress."

The voice was echoing round and round in his head, each loop punctuated by the slam of a butcher's knife embedding itself in the kitchen's wooden table. His Mum had given him permission to draw his target scattered across the top, and borrow her knives usually reserved for dinner for training, since he was on "Probation Practice" until further notice. Apparently he needed to further develop his potential until his personal collection would be returned to him outside of his scheduled sessions. When she'd heard the telltale thuds sounding throughout the house, Vanya had come to offer her constant, meaningless apologies. 

His one break, one chance to break free of his shackles had only strengthened them. Worst of all, the bathroom was no longer unobserved. He had no where to escape to, to break down away from judgemental stares. No where to cry lest his Dad deal yet another blow to his crumbling self-respect. Diego had witnessed firsthand the consequences of crying to Dad. There was a reason why Klaus and Ben had so quickly lost enthusiasm for training. Diego was determined his training would not get any worse. Already, he had come to detest the pool, resent the track and loathe the shooting range. No longer did he rejoice when the rare chance for team sports came; he knew they were a test and he knew he rarely passed. 

"Diego, darling, don't you think that's enough practice for today? You seem to have already mastered the table, you've done such an incredible job!"

There was clatter as three knives dropped to the ground, and one child ran to his mother. Though he knew his Mum was made of nothing but metal and wire, she always felt so much more human than his Dad. She had all the softness his Dad so completely lacked. 

"I-I-I'm s-s-sor-sorry M-mum." 

She pulled him in tighter, shushing away his apologies tenderly. "None of that, silly. I just wanted your help with preparing dinner, we're having a ham roast, and you are oh so clever at carving!"

Diego would never admit how badly he blushed whenever his Mum praised him, but he would never bring himself to stop it either. Her love was like a drug, slowly healing his Dad's neglect. Paving over the holes in his childhood piece by piece.

* * *

Diego was not the only one feeling their Father's scorn more so than usual. Five, despite not having even accepted a secondary name, was facing the consequences of Hargreeve's unspoken anger. His sibling's small revolt had changed something within the old man, he less emotive than ever. Five did not particularly mind this, but was causing him substantial unrest was the recent change in the number of study sheets he was receiving from his training sessions. Previously, he'd had seven given to him at the end of every session, but they'd recently been upped to nine. Despite what his less aware siblings had thought, it was not the increased workload bothering him, rather, the extreme difficulty of dividing nine by seven in order to structure his study appropriately. He now had been forced to divide the worksheets into thirds, allowing him to complete 1.3 pages every night to maintain solidarity with his previously devised system. In the past, Hargreeves had been rather civil regarding Five's special training- which Five suspected was down to his unique ability to engage effectively with them- but ever since he'd blurted out "Vanya" in the recreational room, their relationship had changed its tune. No matter how logically, or in one particularly weak moment, emotionally, he put forth his argument to increase study material to fourteen pages, the bastard refused to relent. It was increasingly becoming more of an issue, as his ability to divide the study sheets into three equal sections was diminishing; and Five suspected this was a deliberate ploy by Hargreeves, some twisted experiment to see how Five would react. It was beginning to test Five's self control extremely well. Whenever the system got too variated, he turned to throwing rocks out his window, aiming at passers-by or garbage cans to vent his anxiety. 

Twelve weeks into his skewed study pattern, Five went on strike. 

Five spent the following week in the Reflection Room.

He was yet to go on strike again, but refused to stop partitioning his work across the seven days. He didn't like to think what would happen if he stopped; it was the thing he dreaded most of all. 

* * *

He ranted all of this to Vanya as she practiced her violin scales, dividing his study as he spoke. 

"I know he's doing it on purpose. He's trying to test me, but he's not going to win. I will adapt and win this game, I'll show him." A pencil was thrown rather aggressively into an unsuspectedly couch cushion. Vanya hummed her agreement hastily, trying not to break her own concentration. Five did have a point, she could recognise that; their Father often played games with his children's wellbeing. But she worried about Five's attempts to undermine and defeat their Father at his own game. Five was smart, Vanya knew that too, but her Father was nothing if not persistent. That was why that awful, beeping camera hung above the bathroom mirror, reminding her of her own mistake every time she went to shower. The red light seemed to pierce even her skin, no curtain or cloth allowed her to hide from its intrusive gaze. 

She knew of all her siblings felt the same. They wouldn't stop telling her. 

"Just be careful, okay Five? I don't want you to go back to the Reflection Room. You know what it did to Klaus."

There was a moment of silence between the pair. Since the children had all begun 'special training', Vanya's fourth brother had had a surge in Reflection Room sentences. He'd only ever come out worse for the wear. Without a word spoken between them, Klaus' harrowing pleas thrown at empty space had become a taboo subject among the children. No one mentioned the meaningless scribble that coated his walls. Only Ben seemed to even come close to understanding Klaus when he cursed out imaginary spiders in his fits. Vanya couldn't watch that happen to Five. 

Didn't want to see him labeled and prescribed, shunned and outcasted. It had been hard enough for her. _Anxiety_. That word had ruined her existence. It'd been the very first sign she was exactly as imperfect as her siblings thought. Klaus was yet to be pulled away for weeks, locked up and drugged. But it aligned perfectly with her Father's nature to turn a blind eye to his other children. Vanya was the only one who needed proper fixing. Had to take the pills everyday under her Mum's supervision. 

She didn't want Five going the same way. Though Klaus had escaped the doctor's visit, Vanya couldn't ignore his cries for help, for all that she didn't respond. If their Father crossed Five's final line, she feared for the both of them. It reminded Vanya of a physics question Five had asked her once. Though she understood very little on the topic, she rather liked its meaning. 

_"What happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object?"_

Vanya didn't know the answer, she wasn't sure she wanted to. 

* * *

It was just a few months prior to the children's ninth birthdays when both Grace and Pogo, within the same week, approached Doctor Reginald Hargreeves concerning the health of his seven wards. Grace had come forwards first, reporting severe abnormalities in the moods of Numbers Two, Four, Six and Seven. She'd come to inquire about possible causes behind the distress the children seemed to be exhibiting, claiming it could be detrimental to their health over the next few years should it go unchecked. Doctor Reginald Hargreeves listened, taking note of every incident before proceeding to do absolutely nothing about it. Pogo came next, concerned for the development of both Number One and Number Five; both were performing at completely uncharacteristic levels for their age in class. Number One, to his surprise, had actually been falling substantially behind, while Number Five raced miles ahead. It did not concern the doctor, however. Nor did the fact Number Three was beginning to exhibit extremely antisocial tendencies. This was the data his experiment was generating naturally. It would be ruinous to interfere now. So, as any worthwhile scientist would, he simply sat back and recorded his results- touching nothing.


	13. Are We Alone Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this one is a little shorter than normal, I just felt like it needed to end where it is.
> 
> TW for implied/referenced self-harm, I am updating tags as we go.

The poster may have read ‘examination’, but all Allison saw was ‘audition’. And perhaps it was more of a notice, rather than a poster, but even in the absence of a childhood, the child’s imagination prevailed. Instead of dreading the upcoming assessment, she looked to it optimistically, imagining herself preparing to take on her very first role. With the confidence of one invested fully in themselves, she spoke to her mirrors in rapid-fire French, Mandarin, Spanish, Greek, a charming smile always on her lips. The reflection smiling back at her was all the applause she needed. It showed a heroine; beautiful, beloved, benign. One who would assuredly pass her audition with ease, for she deserved its crown atop her head.

It showed a girl perfectly sculpted by her father, but to this Allison was blind. He had played her well.

While her Dad refused to reveal the allusive reward for passing the examination, he had built it to unachievable heights. Its impracticality was yet another flaw the girl denied. To her, the reward promised, swore with its whole heart, to cement the shining spotlight she was building around herself. The halo forever glowing about her head, which she bathed and basked in. Maybe it was just a foolish dream, but it was the dream that sustained her. Assured her she would escape reality and seek asylum in the screens which sculpted her.

To Allison, her view was far superior to the anxiety she had seen radiating from Luther in the weeks since judgement day had been revealed. She'd found him constantly hiding, shying from her company, too absorbed in the number she'd forced him to abandon to recognise his worth. He was first for a reason, he had no need to worry as he did. How could he become unworthy of a title so inherently his? That was a reality Allison could and would never accept. As her shining stars from within the screen had built her, she was determined to build him. Creeping to his room, she snatched the door open and rushed inside. It pained her to see his face pressed against a looking-glass; while she turned to hers for worth, he turned to his for hate. She'd never know how many hours he spent before it, scrutinising his body for feigned shortcomings. 

"Luther!" Her hand darted out, latching onto his shoulder tightly, spinning his face to meet hers. "How many times do I have to tell you? Stop it! There's nothing wrong with your face." Each syllable was punctuated with a gentle poke to his chest. 

His responding smile was small and sheepish, a disobedient child caught out of bed. "Sorry, Allison. It's just-" Another finger jabbed into him, this time his side. "Fine! Fine! Okay! I've stopped!"

"Good." Allison folded her arms triumphantly. "You need a break. Stop stressing so much about Dad's stupid exam, you're Number One! You'll be fine." This time, grabbing his hand again, she led her brother to his record stack, trifling through the assorted stack curated from discarded boxes hidden throughout the attic. "Aha!"

She held up her prize, and slotted it into place, lowering the spindle as the disc began to turn. Her free hand found his, and they spun around with it.

* * *

There were bandages wrapped around his stomach again; there always was these days. Some insignificant, neglected part of his brain told him he simply had to stop attacking the deformities littering his skin, but his hands refused. His hands wanted the horrid marks gone, no matter how severe the consequences. Each time Klaus deposited him in the infirmary, his Mum looked at him that torn look he couldn't bear. Each time she kissed the bandages, telling him there was nothing to be ashamed of, guilt consumed more and more of his heart. He knows he will just come back to disappoint her again. 

Alone in the courtyard, he awaited his Father for their weekly 'special' training, dread pooling in his stomach, eating away at his mind. Today they're leaving the mansion, going somewhere to further advance his studies. Considering all his studies seem too teach him is the fastest way to the bathroom, the quickest method of subduing the inevitable nausea, Ben doesn't await whatever surprise lies beyond his cell eagerly. Klaus is the only one of his siblings to have left the house, to have ventured behind the walls hiding away. Klaus is the only one of his siblings who sees spiders following his every step. Ben doesn't want to go.

But his Father arrives, an elongated black case in hand. Ben knows what it is, but denies it just to spite himself. Better raise his hopes while he still has them. The truth is, today's activities aren't so much of a surprise, rather a truth suppressed over years of remorse and loathing. There's no escaping the simple fact today he is bound for the woods lying just beyond the cemetery, supposedly filled with all manners of beasts and monsters. It's not the wicked creatures Ben shrinks from, however. The woods are full of innocence too; rabbits, squirrels, deer. And he's coming to corrupt it all. 

He has no way of skiving it, this is his examination, judgement. Though he abhors the expedition through and through, the thought of failure irks him so. He'd never been particularly bothered about ranks or numbers, none of that will change the shame igniting in his Father's eyes at the site of him, but irrationally a small part hopes passing this ambiguous exam might just win him the favour he inexplicably desires. 

Naturally, it doesn't.

All that cursed trip accomplished was to taint the blackened mass that once might have been his soul. No longer is it just his stomach he cannot stand, his hands are stained in blood that will not wash. Lying on his bed, every blink is a risk. Closing his eyes just for half a second gives his mind the blank canvas to paint his sins in stone. Even with his eyes open, the pictures refuse to move. And nothing stops the sounds trapped forever in his ears. The click of a magazine, the blast of a shot, the thud of a falling body, the silence of trickling, crimson elixir. In the background, he hears a foreign sound too, one that doesn't belong to his darkness- no, these are someone else's demons. 

A violent cackle of laughter gives it away.

Klaus.

They don't go to the bathroom, they can't anymore. Instead, there's a crook beneath the stairs they can shed their shameful tears together, clutching at the scraps of their tattered spirits. As expected, his brother sits there, cheshire smile upon his weary face. It's going to be one of _those_ nights then. 

"Hey, Klaus." 

The wicked smile widens.

"They won't find me here, Ben. I've shaken those pesky arachnids once and for all. You'll see." There's nothing for Ben to do but sit and nod, pretending they're hidden from their terrors for good. 

* * *

In the attic, Luther is losing himself with every turn he and Allison make. Forgets his muscles aren't big enough, forgets the hairs blossoming on his chest and his legs and his arms and his face. Only a few scattered lanterns light their ballroom, the darkness is perfect to escape into. It blocks the mystery exam looming two days ahead. Klaus, Five and Ben have already taken theirs, they've all refused to comment, their selfishness astounds him- but in the tainted attic light, he lets go.

Without a clock, a bell, a timer, time passes strangely to Luther. It comes quickly and leaves slowly, billowing gently, setting its own pace the rest of them must abide by. The moment is meaningless, unorganised, unregulated; the best fun he's had in a long time. In the moment's haze, he imagines this is what it must be for his other siblings, free of the weight and responsibility he shoulders as a leader. But haze is not clear, and nor is his perspective unobscured. For in his delirium, he cannot hear the screams and plagues of his brothers down below him, buried beneath the stairs. The desperate chords of his sister most frantic for his Dad's approval. Hissing metal followed by the smack of blades embedded in disfigured wood. The scratch of a pencil over paper, a ruler splitting and ripping it into perfect little sections. His freedom is selective; liberating at the cost of the very person he aspires to be. 

Because what kind of leader leaves his team behind?


	14. The Inaugural Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a slight delay; I have been sick :(
> 
> Thank you all for the overwhelming response to the last chapter, it really made my week (and a bit)!

Diego had never felt prouder than when he'd passed his Dad's examination. He'd never felt worse than when he found out what the reward was. 

Sure, at face value, gaining access to a special unit known as 'the Umbrella Academy' sounded great- until he found out about the tattoo. He'd always been afraid of needles, injections, piercings, but having a fine blade cut into his skin and stain it? It was a whole different world he was entirely unprepared for. Ben had attempted to explain the process to him, to alleviate the stress, but it hadn't been very helpful. If anything, it had made things worse. Tattoos sounded incredibly painful, dangerous and outright frightful. Worst of all, this tattoo in particular was unavoidable. How could he ever hope to prove himself a brave and competent leader if he could not endure an hour's worth of discomfort?

"Cowardice is not a trait worthy of the Umbrella Academy, Number Two.:"

Then why had he passed the test?

Sitting alone in the kitchen, his feet tapped anxiously as he flicked through his Detective Comic. There was no need for him to pay the words any attention, he'd read it enough times already. The important part was at the end anyways. The final showdown; vigilante and cop working side by side to defeat the villain. 

"Are you reading that again? Really, Diego, you know how big our library is. Why settle from some half destroyed cartoon you swiped from the gutter?"

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Just two more hours, and his Mum would be out of maintenance. Only two hours would he have to face Five's taunts alone. A rather helpful corner of his mind reminded him that for the most part, he hadn't been alone. Luther and Allison never seemed to be too far away when he needed them the least. 

"The f-fffuck do you w-want, FFive? Mum's sss-sstill with DDad." He tried to look confidently at his brother, but his eyes refused to meet the other's. 

Cabinet doors began creaking and slamming, packaging crinkling, plates clinking against one another. "I'm hungry. If that's alright with you." A sandwich soon began taking shape on the bench-top, Diego cursing himself for his defensiveness. 

_Just ignore them, if you don't react, they'll go away._

For some reason, that advice was the only time he struggled to listen to his Mum. Perhaps that was a similarity with him and Vanya, not knowing when to keep their heads down and stay quiet.

Diego stuck with a timid nod instead of challenging himself to speak. Five made his god-awful peanut-butter and marshmallow monstrosity and left his brother alone to flip once more through his comic. Two hours, two hours, two one-hour time slots. One hour multiplied by two. Himself multiplied by sixty. 

She'd promised to be back at exactly 4pm. 2pm plus 2pm. 

He'd promised he'd be waiting. 

* * *

Tattoos really hurt. They hurt so goddamned much. Klaus didn't really care if Luther, Diego and Five tried to brush it off as nothing. They. Hurt. He and Allison had even taken a rare moment together to cry about it afterwards. They'd both agreed they were the most upset about just how ugly it was; a gruesome eyesore permanently embedded into their flesh. Shortly after that wonderful ten hour period they'd spent getting the tattoos done in the foyer, they'd tried to cover them up with Allison's foundation- Klaus was yet to figure out where she got it from- but had been abysmally unsuccessful. Ripping the plastic wrap from their skin had felt liberating, if only for a moment. Almost immediately they discovered the numerous flaws in their ill-constructed plan; there was a reason they had been warned not to remove the only barrier between them and their newfound scars. Placing any form of irritant, which apparently included liquid foundation, on recently maimed skin was excruciatingly painful. It burned. Badly. Additionally, on a perhaps less important note, both children discovered foundation did not come in a universal colour; while the cosmetic did obscure the blemish slightly, the ill-matched shade on Klaus' skin did little to distract the eye from his arm.

Thankfully, their Mum had been fortunately able to undo the damage discreetly.

Every week Klaus grew more weary of evoking Reginald's ire. 

It wasn't as though Klaus suffered particularly often- at least in a physical sense- at the hands of it; no Klaus was merely ignored, studied from afar. But through Ben, and Ben's body, he learnt how brutal Reginald could be, provided the proper inspiration. It made Klaus guilty, when he found himself crying during his own training, to know it could be so much worse. At least the shadows did not bruise him 'til he fought back. 

Klaus' latest session was proving incredibly challenging in this regard. He had sympathy for Ben, he really did, but this was the longest he'd ever spent trapped in the mausoleum as far as he could tell, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to remind himself that it could be worse. Because although he'd filled his sketch book what he perceived to be hours ago, Reginald was yet to let him out. He was trapped in a cage and out of clean paper; the shadows were closing in. 

Why did no one think to put a functioning light bulb in here? Surely they'd want light so they could actually discern whose corpse they were mourning?

Maybe there was a light, hidden by the shades so relentlessly taunting him. 

Maybe if he banished the shadows, the light would appear. 

In the crippling darkness, he made out his sketch book, pencils and markers lying discarded in the corner; he'd hurled them at a particularly aggressive shadow, in the form of a spider, who'd brought up his tattoo. If it had worked in his bedroom...

His eyes, well adjusted to the all-consuming black, turned to the stark white walls. 

Ten hours later, Klaus heard the wondrous creak of the mausoleum door opening to reveal Reginald, torch in hand, ready to take him home for the week. The bright beacon of hope illuminated the dim tomb, showcasing Klaus' wards for all to see. An abstract tangent of shapes, words and images coated the bricked wall with seemingly no order or pattern. Klaus saw it differently, however. To him, they were his personalised sigils, chasing away his tormentors. To Dr Reginald, they were proof his experiment was working.

* * *

Blood was such an interesting substance. Some people said it was meant to be blue, only turning red when exposed to oxygen; Ben was almost certain this was false. He had seen far too much to not associate it with that sickening scarlet syrup- blue simply felt inherently wrong. Blood was also interesting in its capacity to stain; clothes, carpets, skin. Ben's life was stained with a suspicious amount of blood for a ten-year-old boy, but most of it had a perfectly legal explanation. Mouse-traps were perfectly legal- and so was disposing of their bodies by feeding them to cats. Hunting too was perfectly legal, though Ben did not realise the licenses and permits produced by his Father to placate him could not apply to him for another two years. Even the shooting was legal; that hated act of locking, loading and firing he had unwillingly perfected. What wasn't legal, however, were the hits that left an ugly rainbow of patches littered across his body; but despite his years of reading, that was one fact Ben would never know. 

At night, he took the longest time in the shower, rivalled only by Allison. But Allison had a thick head of hair to maintain, as well as a skin care routine; Ben had only ruby-red guilt, and those shameful blemishes across his stomach. In other words, he had no legitimate when faced with the teasing remarks of his siblings. 

Klaus never commented on his lengthy showers, just as Ben never commented on his distinct aversion to any form of bathing. They both had their reasons, and would both most likely never tell the other. 

"Cowardice is not a trait worthy of the Umbrella Academy."

None of them wanted to endure that particular lecture in Diego's place, although they'd all had to watch. Even Vanya had been present, though she had been rejected from the Academy's cut for an undisclosed reason.

Well, their Father had given a reason- cited a lack of talent- but few of the children had actually believed it. They'd all heard her desperate, all-day practice sessions in the lead up to the exam. Ben rather felt she perhaps had the most talent of all of them; he certainly wasn't sure how slaughtering innocent animals had qualified over her beautiful symphonies, he'd tried telling her as much, but she'd brushed him off morosely. 

It wasn't her fault, he'd probably feel just as isolated in her position. He'd come extremely close to it, after all, he was careful never to forget he was just one rank above her. Not much separated sixth and seventh. 

In fact, if not for their unsightly new tattoos, did anything?

* * *

The night of the infamous tattooing, Vanya's cheap imitation was washed easily away in the shower, just as her tears. Had she not practised enough? Played for hours upon hours until her callouses threatened to give way and bleed? She, of all her siblings, had done the most for the exam- she hadn't seen either Ben or Klaus do a single moment of revision, study, practice for whatever their speciality was- and all she got in return was a two-dollar marker which bled away with her dreams. As she sat in the tub, water drowning her from above, her fists clenched in and out, her rage rising and falling in sync. Her body was a pendulum, swinging between choler and melancholy. A snake wound high in her mind-tree whispered the futility of her efforts, but the fox waiting stoically below promised vengeance served cold. She had proven herself more diligent than any of them, she could prove herself better. All she needed was time, patience, practice. 

She rose from her pity, dried and dressed herself, and stalked towards the instrument of her revenge. Bow in hand, chin in place, she began one of her latest and favourite songs, this one stolen from one of Allison's countless musicals. It was a strange one; Allison adored it as a depiction of love's all-consuming power to heal and redeem, but Vanya was much more enthralled by the unfortunate plight of the man in the mask. Rejected until the end, forgotten in the background despite all his efforts. Perhaps that was why Vanya had chosen his song. 

She wouldn't be forgotten in the dark while the heroes ran amok above her. One day she would prove herself, they'd recognise her talents, accomplishments.

Wouldn't they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I would have to read the LitCharts for the Phantom of the Opera, but here we are.
> 
> All the hunting/firearms laws for Ben's bit are based on what I found was true for Canada, where I originally had this set because that's where the show is filmed and I'm kinda over everything being set in the USA (no offence intended). I do not live there, I do not own a gun and have never been and will never go hunting, so please correct me if any of my information is wrong!


	15. Disjunction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay; I have been sick and an all round disaster and I apologise for this. 
> 
> The problem about writing your notes in code is although it ensures no one random understands you're writing fanfiction, it that it also means when you look back at them you may also have no idea what you were talking about. To anyone who can guess why I have written "boom (movies)" under age 13 of my timeline, I will owe you big time, because yeah, I'm lost.
> 
> Also;  
> TW for self harm and mentions of blood

Had anyone asked Luther to define exactly what the Umbrella Academy did, he would be completely unable to. In his defence, it hadn't been properly explained to him, but it did mean using his new status as its 'Captain' was more than slightly preemptive. With no assigned responsibilities, save 'leading his team', he essentially had empty authority, but fell conveniently deaf when Diego attempted to prove this point to him. To Luther, it was the novelty of the title; 'Captain' sounded rather impressive to his ears. He additionally knew this was the term used for pilots and this only served to further inspire his dreams of one day piloting a rocket all the way into deep space. 

His Dad was yet to discourage this. On the odd occasion, he had hinted towards it one day becoming a reality. The Umbrella Academy would need members not just spread out across the globe, but the galaxy. Five called it preposterous, but also referred to himself willingly with a number, so Luther refused to let it bother him. 

After all, he was Number One for a reason. 

Had Luther ever learnt the truth of their assigned numbers, he would never have recovered. You cannot take away the base of a building and expect it to stand. 

From the moment the first six children were accepted into the Academy, their training increased exorbitantly. Luther found himself training in the gym for long sessions every week, muscles aching almost constantly, no matter how much orange juice his Mum slipped him at breakfast. Allison teased him about the bulk he was gaining, and while none of it was fat, he couldn’t help but grimace with every prod. Was it too much? He had no way of telling; Diego’s build was nothing like his, and neither Five, Klaus nor Ben could be considered at the peak of athletic prowess. 

When the children all turned twelve, the birthday atmosphere was divided. Their Dad had decreed them fit to begin missions out in the real world, and none of them quite understood how to act. To their knowledge, only a third of them had even left the building in the course of their lives. As all their lives had been, the competitions were individual, catered to each member’s unique strength, but now there came a catch. Training would be combined where possible; and it was this that had caused perhaps the most discord. To Luther, it had not been all that significant a change- sure, now he would probably share sessions with Diego, but their Dad had planned it all carefully. Their Dad knew best, their Dad did best, their Dad was best. 

Why was that so hard for his siblings to understand?

Luther was more than surprised when his Dad revealed they'd be doing part of their training together as team; all his siblings had been too. His Dad had said they all be doing an individual sport- should they not be already- but he hadn't thought they'd also be doing team sports. Sure, the Umbrella Academy was _meant_ to be a team, but the Hargreeves children had been anything but all their lives. 

* * *

Team sports were bullshit. Particularly when on the team captained by Luther. For some reason, Diego's Dad insisted he be on a team with "Number One and Number Three" every, single week when they met for group training, and it was really beginning to grate on his nerves. Because, of course, Luther as 'captain', had to be team leader every time. Which gave him total authority, apparently. Even if his strategy was ludicrous and cost them victory constantly. It did not help that Five lead the other team each week, meaning somehow Klaus managed to do better than Luther and Diego combined, even though he specialised in _art._

But no, despite training in aquatics and athletics since age five, Diego did not have the title necessary to have an opinion. 

Today, it seemed, would be no different. It was indoor capture-the-flag; indoors to supposedly test their agility and stealth. 

It was not going well, but team sports never did. As per usual, Diego had attempted to weigh in on their abysmal strategy and been shut down before he could even get all the words out. Allison had managed to get herself tagged within the first ten minutes by _Ben_. And Diego was now, despite all his insistence that he had actually been trained for this kind of activity all his life, was stuck defending the stupid fucking flag. What was Luther going to do? Punch his way through the front line? It was a non-contact sport. Tagging only. 

Somewhere over in the other team's side of the mansion, Klaus was having an episode of sorts. With only audio, Diego failed to ascertain exactly what he was doing, but it wasn't hard to guess; in some dark corner, there was a huddled, rocking figure cursing out the figments of his imagination. 

Maybe today, they actually had a chance at winning. If Klaus was occupied, it was most likely Ben was too. That left Five, who was most likely already advancing on their flag. For the textbook definition of a nerd, the bastard was both sneaky and speedy. 

"D-don't scr-screw this up, Luther."

Diego had never been religious, perhaps that was why his prayers always fell short. 

Out the corner of his eye, something darted past. Five. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

"I ssssaw you, FFFive."

"And what about it?" 

How had he already moved? Scrawny bastard.

"It'sss ju-just you, a-alone. Kl-Klaus and B-Ben are b-b-busy, a-aren't th-they?"

No reply, just another scuffle indicative of his brother's changing position. One on one. The odds were finally equal. At last, his shot at worthiness. 

"C-come on, FFive, I kn-now yo-you're th-there."

The screech of a cupboard hurriedly shoved aside, the heavy footsteps of a con on the run. 

"Y-you bastard!" 

Somehow, he'd snuck up on Diego. Somehow, he'd gotten the flag. At least Diego was used to defeat now. No one would be surprised, no one particularly disappointed. He'd failed too many times for one more to be noteworthy. 

* * *

The competitions sounded rather exhilarating. Not only were they a chance for Allison to finally acquaint herself with the outside world, they also presented the opportunity for Allison to begin gaining the notoriety she hungered for. Four areas in which to excel, four areas to conquer. Well, perhaps only one still required work; the others she knew she had long ago perfected. Public speaking, acting, debating; they all came under the same umbrella branch, one that had come quite naturally to the young girl. There was something about her people _wanted_ to believe, and thanks to her Dad, it had become her life's work to exploit that want, need, desire. The martial arts, however, were new for her. Sports had been a relatively minimal part of Allison's life until she had made into the Umbrella Academy- she'd only ever played casually against her siblings prior to the present. But a condition of entry had been selecting a sport to major in, and Allison had seen too many movies not to pick them. Unfortunately, she'd been made to narrow down her selection in lieu of the competitions, but secretly, she hoped to extend herself beyond kung-fu once she was finished learning it. Allison, three additional languages already under her belt, refused to be limited by choices in life. For her, there was always a third choice. Nothing was ever binary for one so gifted in the art of manipulation. 

Training for the competitions was significantly less invigorating than the notion of the competitions. For Allison, her 'special training' now stretched across a thirteen hour period; one three-hour session for each competition, three twenty-minute breaks. Luther was supposed to have a similar arrangement, but she couldn't speak for her other siblings. Especially when she didn't speak _with_ them all that much anyways. Most likely it was the same for them; their Dad was a man of science and logic, which often failed to allow for deviation. It was a pity for him, she often thought, his choice in children so drastically failed to align with that principle. She'd spent considerable time contemplating which of them would be the first to make him snap- properly snap, that was. Sure, he'd lost his temper on multiple occasions and was no stranger to corporal punishment, but Allison could see something buried beneath those layers of callous collectedness. A cauldron was simmering, one day it would bubble over; but the catalyst was yet to be determined. Had she had any money or possessions to herself, she'd have bet on Klaus. Perhaps Diego, should something go particularly amiss. 

The powder and gloss she'd been gifted privately by her Mum had played an integral part in her surviving the gruelling training sessions she now attended bi-weekly. One session individual, one session Umbrella Academy. Coated behind layers of her own lies somehow reinforced the ones she crafted. Confidence was key, after all. And there was just something about her beautified mask that simply strengthen the fortitude she already held. 

* * *

Klaus had never realised the body held so many muscles until he had become intimately acquainted with each of them first-hand. For the first time in his life, he began to consider that spite was a rather self-destructive motivator. Ben had called it karma, the grunts, moans and obscenities escaping his mouth with each pirouette, bow, leap. Klaus preferred to think of it as a sacrifice, a small price to pay for Reginald's scandalised expression as his ward donned the bodice, skirt and slippers hand-crafted by his own creation. It must have been hours by now, that he had spent stroking the navy tulle. A fruitful sacrifice indeed, even if his costume had been forcefully modelled after his garish uniform. 

Sitting alone together in the arts room they had somehow petitioned from Reginald, the two brothers took the increasingly rare chance to practice their preferred crafts. Ben poured his soul into words while Klaus turned his to brush strokes. Water colour had always been Klaus' favourite, but its colourful nature did not lend itself to the emotive scribbles he was made to craft in the dark. As a result, he took his every chance to simply paint life, the smallest moments of his day that brought him happiness brought alive with every colour on his pallet. Today, it was his brother, enthralled in his work, a rare peace emulating from him. 

"Why can't we just have normal talents, and do shit like this all the time?" It infuriated Klaus to no end that they both, though Ben in particular, were forced to endure the most constricting circumstances for end products they had absolutely no desire for. Was it too much to ask for some respite, hope or happiness? The way Ben looked when he engrossed himself in his latest poem or chronicle was the way Ben deserved to look all the time. He didn't deserve the void of self-loathing and resentment Reginald had shoved him into. Try as he did, Klaus never managed to make Ben understand how incredible he really was- the only one prepared to keep up with his bullshit. Klaus had never been good with words, that was meant to be Ben's job, so he continued to fail at telling Ben just how much of a compass he was within the pitch-black hell of their supposed home. 

"I don't know Klaus, but it's not happening any time soon. Apparently I'm meant to participate in a 'Junior Shooter's' tournament next week, he's signed me up for their club and everything. It even came with a badge, and he's making me carry it around." He reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out a gaudy camouflage pin, specks of painted blood crossed with two rifles. Klaus didn't need to ask who the anonymous 'he' was, he knew Ben resented calling Reginald 'Dad', while simultaneously being too afraid to simply do away with the endearment and switch to Reginald.

"That's atrocious; give it to me." The pin was eagerly switched between the pair, held up for close inspection by Klaus. "Why does this feel like something Luther would almost wear? Just to prove he's qualified to be our 'Captain' or whatever."

The badge was quickly snatched back. "Don't joke about that Klaus, not even Luther deserves that. Besides, I doubt he'd be able to kill anything at all."

"Hey! Hey! Don't start that shit, Ben. You know it's not your choice, what Reggie makes you do." 

A defeated sigh, a mumbled reassurance. 

Klaus wondered what it would take to get his brother to see the truth he was so quick to bat away. 

* * *

Despite the entire city block his family's house took up, Five was finding the quantity of free space rapidly diminishing. Wherever he went, there seemed to be nothing but senseless noise, jamming his brain and jarring his nerves. How was there nowhere to escape the endless ramblings of his siblings, to concentrate on his study in silence. He had to complete his miniaturised engine blueprints by the end of the rotation. Today was One, four days left if the current day was included. He picked up the corresponding pencil, twisted it around seven times in his sharpener and set to work. He had secreted himself in one of the closed-off bathrooms, door locked securely behind him.

Or was it?

Quickly, he dashed up to check, locking it once more, just in case. Then again, as a precaution. Another time, just to be sure. He locked it, locked it, locked it and locked it one last time. 

There. Safe and sound. 

For the second time, he picked up his pencil, finally getting to work. He'd been studying the physics, mathematics and chemistry necessary for years, under Hargreeves' strict guidance. He was prepared, qualified, skilled. He would show Hargreeves he was capable, then he'd finally, _finally_ , get to move onto quantum mechanics. He was bored and he was ready and he was running out of patience. Why was he made to fiddle with tedious competitions and creations to prove himself? Both he and Hargreeves knew he, of all his siblings, possessed the intellect. Infuriated by his own thoughts, he dug his pencil deep into the paper to vent his emotions until the led snapped off abruptly. 

Seven more turns in the sharpener. A busy silence, a frustrated snarl. The harsh clicking of his calculator keys, the soft glide of his pencil against the ruler. This repeated itself time and time again, until all seven copies had been produced; he needed plenty of backups, lest someone try to sabotage his chance at escaping his worn textbooks, pages yellowed from being flipped over and over and over. The copies were scattered across the house, buried, buried, buried, buried, buried, buried and buried. Hidden safe from prying eyes and sticky fingers. 

They couldn't find his blueprints. Not now. 

A sigh of relief escaped him; dopamine, he recalled the process from his biochemistry lessons several years back. He was safe again, as was his family. Protected. Secure. 

Several halls down, an electric bell signalled curfew. Seven sets of footsteps raced towards seven waiting bedrooms, preparing to be locked in for the night. Five refused to feel guilty about that; he wasn't the only one who'd be caught wandering the halls late at night still fast asleep. It was a well established fact that both Ben and Vanya were equally responsible, and Klaus took his own chunk of blame for his _deliberate_ late night adventures. Klaus had intentionally broken curfew, surely that made him the only truly guilty party in the scenario. Why Luther felt the lecture had needed to be extended to Five, the boy had no clue. A 'Captain' should be logical, and despite his clear lack of basic empathy, there seemed to be a distinct lack of coherent thought process in his brother's mind as well. Five often pondered the circumstances under which his siblings were born and adopted; clearly, something had gone fundamentally wrong during their early postnatal development. Then again, their postnatal development was probably hindered by a significant amount of neglect and psychopathic levels of control.

Good thing he had escaped most of the damage. He must be doing something right, if they were still yet to find him. It was a shame his siblings weren't able to adapt as he was. So much wasted potential. Luckily for them, he still decided to protect them.

They'd have caught them all long ago, otherwise. 

* * *

Why couldn't he get clean? Why wouldn't it just wash away? No matter how long he spent scrubbing, scratching and scraping, the telltale crimson refused to disappear. No matter how many times for their forgiveness, no matter how many corpses he'd snuck out to bury; the blood remained, and so did his guilt. He probably used more soap than all his siblings combined, but Ben couldn't care less about that. He just wanted to be _clean_. Was it too much to ask?

Staring down at his stained skin, the answer appeared to be yes. 

With an irritated groan, he threw the loofah against the wall with a soap-soaked slap. Onto the next order of business, then. Ben turned his eyes down towards his stomach, and the angry red patch occupying it. It was itchy again, as scabs typically were; and while he knew he really shouldn't bother it, he couldn't stand looking at it, feeling it. Short, unkempt nails grated along his wretched blemish, as if they could wipe it away forever. 

He knew that was impossible, however. He'd already tried and failed.

And still he tried again. 

Again and again and again, until fresh blood began to slowly seep down into the tub below. He really shouldn't be so used to pink water. It should be easier to remember it being clear. 

"Ben! Other people need to use the bathroom too, you do realise that?"

That'd be Allison. It was always her who chased him out of his baths, citing the need to do her hair along with the fact that baths didn't actually have to take over an hour as her excuse. Ben had learnt the hard way she wasn't joking whenever she threatened to force her way if need be. That had been a rather awkward evening. Luckily, Allison knew how to keep her mouth shut; at least to their Father, Ben had accepted she'd most likely told Luther everything she'd seen. The prospect didn't overly phase him, Luther had never had much respect for him anyways. 

As he slowly stood, he realised the water had turned cold long ago, icy droplets falling from his skin. Black towel wrapped around his torso, he prepared for the walk of shame to his Mum's station, the hushed request for more gauze. For the silent look of hurt- or was it disappointment? Either way, he hated it; he just hated his marks a little bit more.

"Mum?"

"Ben! How can I help you?" For a moment, there was genuine smile on her face, until she caught the sheepish expression across his face. "Oh sweetheart, not again? You know there's absolutely nothing wrong with having birthmarks? And you know the scratches can't heal if you keep opening them up?"

Ben nodded, eyes facing the floor. 

"Come here, silly, we'll get you all patched up now." A warm embrace, a comforting arm against his back, leading him down to the first-aid room. The gentle sting of disinfectant, the reassuring bind of the bandage, wrapped round and round and round. "Right. You best be off to bed, it's nearly time for curfew. But before you go-" Ben paused his departure, "- you know I love you, yes?"

One last hug, squeezing tight. "I love you too, Mum."

* * *

Vanya had never guessed she'd develop such a burning hatred for sports as she had. In principle, she had no issue with them; she'd enjoyed playing them with her siblings when they were younger. But now she was forced to referee from the sidelines, bearing the brunt of their frustrations, she resented them with every portion of her soul. It wasn't enough she hadn't made the cut for the Umbrella Academy, she was now being made to fuel their success without sharing in it whatsoever. Instead, she was left alone to practice her violin, standing in the abandoned recreational room for hours on end. Five had even stopped coming by to study, claiming the atmosphere ill-suited to his concentration.

It was funny that it had never been a problem in the seven years beforehand. 

Her 'special' training had been cancelled after she'd failed the exam; supposedly it wasn't worthwhile for her to receive private tuition anymore. But that was no excuse for her to stop practicing, apparently. So she taught herself the songs now, taught herself the chords and sheets. No one really cared, except for her Mum. Occasionally, she'd stop by during her routine cleaning, pausing to listen and applaud. It was sweet, but it felt different to the attention of her siblings. Maybe the grass simply appeared greener on the other side, maybe she was being greedy, nonetheless she couldn't help it. Vanya longed for praise, appreciation and encouragement. She was drying up without it, self-esteem withering away slowly. The wisps her Mum gave were hardly enough. Vanya was famished, unable to last much longer lest she succumb to the frantic thoughts constantly clouding her mind. 

Was it her fault they all shunned her so? Did she play too loudly? Talk to softly? Was it her skirt, her hair, her voice, her face? If only she could pinpoint exactly where she'd gone wrong, way back when they'd been infants, she wouldn't have to worry so much. Wouldn't have to plan her every action, trying to work around their judgemental stares and imposing auras. 

It must have been while she was extremely young, she'd never really bonded with many of her siblings, besides Five. And now even he was sliding away from her, caught up in the world wind of the Academy and whatever voices he had in his head. His were different to Klaus', that she was sure of. What worried her the most was what they were telling him, what they were making him do. She herself had no idea, that secret he'd absolutely refused to divulge. She could only guess, take herself down the slippery slope of rumination and contemplation. Suppose she was to blame? 

A darker part of her felt it didn't matter, whatever Five was doing, thinking, feeling. He'd made his stance clear, she wasn't a part of it, nor the rest of his life. She wasn't part of anyone's life. And what kind of existence was that?

It was lonely, she concluded. That was the only way to put it, sheer loneliness and hurt.

But it was all she had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for the delay, but it's slightly longer to make up for it???
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments you've been leaving, they make me grin like an idiot when I read them.


	16. Under Pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't play any sports. Please forgive me (or correct me) for inaccuracies. 
> 
> Also! I am very sorry for the delay! I am currently doing my preliminary exams, so life has been just, not fun. Not to worry, they're nearly done, so I should be able to get some extra updates done afterwards to thank you all for your patience!
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter is short, technically it's really half a chapter and I'm going to publish the last three perspectives in the next one, but I really wanted to get an update out. Might just merge the two later on, but for now they'll be seperate.

The ring was rather intimidating. Well, Luther supposed the entire gym could be described that way, but there was something that stuck out about the worn rope and stained mattresses. Perhaps it was the pressure pounding in his mind, insisting he excel. He was the precedent, the Captain, the leader. He refused to be a failure; but as he gazed around the sweaty gymnasium, he couldn't ignore the doubt building exponentially inside him. One glance at the other boys beginning to warm up undid seven years of training almost instantly. Was he strong enough, fast enough, big enough to overpower them? 

Allison had assured him he would be, so had his Mum, but he couldn't hear their voices over his own. It didn't help that he also couldn't seem them, they'd be sent to wait inside the car with everyone else. Training had been cancelled for the fortnight, as the children were taken across the city to their individual competitions. Naturally, Luther's had been first, it only made sense for Number One to be the opening act. The fact that none of the other competitions were in a linear order didn't matter to him; he had his position at the start. He had to make it work, lest Diego take it as a sign of his ineptitude. He was so sick of being challenged, why wouldn't the others simply accept their Dad's judgement? It was yet to steer them wrong, so what evidence could they possible have to put forward?

In the change room, his head fell into his hands. In front of him, his Dad gave a pre-match speech, though the words failed to internalise. Instead, he mulled on his own training, the hours spent locked down in the home gym. 

Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Uppercut. Jab.

His Dad chose him for this. His Dad knew he could do it. So, naturally, that meant he could. Should. Would. 

The timer buzzed forebodingly, an ominous messenger. Donning his glove, Luther made his way to the ring, ducking under the rope and sizing up his opponent. Tall, around his own height, but wiry, slimmer then himself. If Diego had taught him anything, it was that the boy before would be fast, agile, but lacking in brute force. And that was all Luther was really good for, wasn't it? Bulk muscle? What was it Five had once likened him to?

Ah. A blunt object used to repeatedly clobber another over the head with. Dull, witness, powerful.

But if his Dad insisted he was capable to be Captain; strong enough, smart enough, sensible enough, that was the end of the argument. Who were his siblings to argue against a literal doctor? None of them had any sort of tertiary education to their name, clearly they were unqualified in the subject of specialised child development training. 

The referee stepped forward, shirt white and black, just like on the television. The bell sounded pretty similar too. The circling, the assessing, the testing. It was all becoming familiar to him, each step deeply ingrained into his mind, each movement a distinct memory for his muscles. The first hit? Exactly as he had envisioned. He'd feinted, landing a blow to the other boy's stomach instead of his face, sparking a much needed boost of confidence. He was Luther Hargreeves, Captain of the Umbrella Academy. He would win this battle for his team. And if he won it for someone else, just a little, on top of that? Well, it didn't really matter all that much. It was surely the same for the rest of his siblings.

* * *

Luther won his tournament. That was the utterly underwhelming message Diego and his siblings were met with as both Luther and his Dad returned to the car. Of course Luther had won all-out, first go. He was the golden child, Number One. Chosen for a reason. How could Diego have ever forgotten? As the car moved back into drive, Diego snuck sulking glances across at his victorious brother, perplexed yet vindicated by his seemingly battered appearance. At least it had clearly been no picnic. Though Diego may not have landed the blows which now maimed his brother's face, he still revelled in their aftermath, cowing his brother in his moment of glory. 

In fact, Luther was yet to gloat or preach at his success, remaining silently subdued, eyes fixated out the window on the passing buildings. Had their Dad not been impressed enough by a total victory? Had Luther lost one of the matches, while still remaining victorious over all? That was the type of imperfection their Dad detested most of all. Better to be an all-out failure than a runner-up in his mind. Unfortunately for Diego, by definition alone, he was forever destined for the second-place position. At least Vanya did not have to suffer the constant pressure that apparently came with an Academy membership; no one had expectations for the unlucky soul placed last in a pre-fixed match. Most likely she had long ago determined she was unfit for their Dad's affection and devoid herself of all hope of obtaining it. Diego felt that would be the smartest thing to do in her position- their Dad had little enough love for second-place. To be seventh? Vanya might as well not even exist. 

It was strange, the atmosphere within the car as they travelled to Five's exposition. For once, there was almost a sense of equality between the siblings as they each faced a challenge unlike ever before. Had Luther not just won, they may have even achieved neutrality. Perhaps it was the extreme lack of reaction from their Luther or their Dad bringing about the anxious mood. Clearly, a cut and dry victory was the bare minimum, the cost of entry back into the looming limousine. The price of approval? Acceptance? Acknowledgement? That remained undefined. 

Ahead, Allison nudged Luther, attempting to elicit some sort of response from the boy. Typical. Diego had once thought Allison lacked the capacity to empathise with anyone other than herself; Luther had proven the exception to the rule. It seemed a lifetime of being taught exactly how to get one's way in every language known to man gave one a sort of god-complex. Go figure. However, Luther seemed determined to once again prove an exception, ignoring all of Allison's communications and affections. 

But it was no comfort to Diego, as much as he usually savoured these failures, cracks in their Dad's intricately designed machine, it only sunk the stone in his stomach lower. Because if this is what _Luther_ , _Number One_ , came out as, what on Earth was going to happen to him? Sure, he was confident in his skills; none of his siblings could even dream of reaching his levels in regards to his athletics nor aim, but how did he compare to the ones he was about to face? Not for the first time in his life, Diego found himself craving knowledge, familiarity, with the outside world. 

* * *

Allison was becoming increasingly fed up with Five's miniaturised engine. As their Dad once again brought it up, this time during the drive to Klaus' ballet recital, as the epitome of the Umbrella Academy's standards, Allison felt herself tick over into the stage she termed 'really, really fucking sick of Five's bullshit engine'. So what if they'd submitted it to a university and offered Five early placement? Did Allison's annihilation of Patrick Anderson and his 'Greener Earth for All' speech count for nothing? She had scored full marks, a feat one of the judges had described as "incredibly rare for one of such a young age", yet received absolutely no praise, recognition nor respect for her unprecedented success? Suffice to say, she was feeling sufficiently scorned. It did not help Luther had become unusually distant since his win at his boxing tournament, leaving her completely stranded without a willing body to vent and rant at. 

As a result of her irritation, Allison's temper was becoming dangerously short. 

"Klaus! Can you not sit still for five minutes? Your stupid tutu is taking up enough space as it is!" An elbow buried itself in her brother's side.

"Hey!" Another elbow shoved back in return. 

A monocled face turned to face the children seated in the back of the car. "Number Three. Number Four. Physical violence should not be used against a teammate. Cooperation is a vital skill for any company to be successful; as is patience."

Today simply was not Allison's day. It was bad enough she had to be dragged out for the day to follow her siblings around, all the while with no real purpose to her being there. Her kung-fu tournament wasn't until next week, yet she had been forced into car with all her siblings for the day, while one of them was wearing a tutu and another stunk of chlorine. Surely all pools had showers, didn't they? And yet Diego blatantly ignored their existence in favour of suffocating his siblings. These competitions couldn't be over soon enough for Allison, all she wanted was to return home and return to normal. 

Then Luther would be her friend again and they could vent about all the irritating nonsense the fortnight of competitions had held (see Five's miniaturised engine). 

When the car finally pulled up outside the hall where Klaus' ballet recital was being held, an aura of calm filled the car as both the tutu and their Dad exited the vehicle. Surprisingly, it was Ben who first took advantage of the newly acquired peace.

"I want to go home. I don't want to do the competitions anymore."

Vague murmurs of assent sounded throughout the car. Ben's competition wasn't until the end of the fortnight, but his dread regarding it had been a poorly kept secret, unaided by Klaus' confrontation with their Dad concerning the unethical nature of a shooting game as a sport. Allison had to admit she felt bad for Ben; their Dad had taken his irritation at the screaming match out on both him and Klaus, despite the numerous claims made by Klaus towards the other's innocence in the matter. They'd both spent consecutive weeks in the Reflection Room. Everyone else had spent a week of concern for their brother, followed by a week of sleepless nights haunted by blood chilling screams. 

"Well, we could just leave. I mean, he's just left us sitting in the car. How would he stop us?"

Why, oh why, did Five constantly feel the need to play devil's advocate?

"We are not running away. Dad is making us participate in these competitions for a good reason, we're not going to thank him by abandoning us." Impressive. Five had successfully drawn Luther from his moping trance. 

"I'm just saying, the option is there; nothing is actually forcing us to comply with his mind games. But if you're all too scared, we can sit in here, waiting like good little puppets for him to come back."

No one dared acknowledge Five's words out loud. But the silence which followed held the buzzing of calculation and contemplation. 

* * *

Other children, Klaus had decided, were fucking bastards. Apparently, _boy-ballerinas,_ weren't supposed to wear skirts. Ever. They'd made this abundantly clear to him when one of the girl's backstage had set fire to it after his performance. Tulle did not smell good burnt, another useful piece of information he'd gathered from his wonderful experience with the outside world. To be fair, Klaus wasn't exactly sure what he had expected from the foreign world of civilisation, but he had been hoping their animated bodies would provide better company than that of their corpses. After today, he'd rate them both about equally shit. 

Fleeing from the smoke-filled dressing room, he found himself in standing in a smoke-filled alley, only polluted by a different source. Two of the older dancers were propped against the bricks, lit cigarettes pressed to their lips.

Just what he needed. More people.

"Hey! Tutu! Need a hit? You look like you could use one."

Klaus swore he could feel the blood rushing to his face. First of all, Tutu? As if he needed the reminder. Second of all, he looked like he needed one? What on Earth was that supposed to mean? Sure, he was breathing heavy and he sort of felt like crying- oh. Were cigarettes supposed to fix that? All he knew about the things was that they supposed burnt your lungs. At least, that was what Pogo had told them in health class. 

But if they really would fix his shitty emotions, then maybe it would balance it out? Burnt lungs didn't sound good, but neither was his crying and screaming, according to Reggie. And then his siblings would be pleased, because they didn't have to suffer the consequences of his 'episodes'. 

"Yeah, thanks." With a feigned confidence, he strolled over and plucked the offered stick, trying to suck the smoke like he'd seen the teens doing. Instead, he began coughing profusely. Why did he want to throw up now? Wasn't it supposed to make him better?

"First time?" Klaus nodded, afraid to speak with his burning throat. "Here. You want to take a deep breath- more of an inhale- and sort of let it fill you up a bit. Then you can exhale, once you feel it getting into your system."

Klaus just nodded again, before taking the cigarette between his fingers once more and following the instructions as best he could. This time, it didn't seem to choke him as much; he actually could feel himself relax a little as it hit his head, clearing it. 

A congratulatory hand patted his back as he exhaled. "Hey, not bad. Feel any better?"

"Actually, I think I might. Thanks, again." He'd have to tell Ben about the cigarettes, maybe he'd sleep better if he tried some. Inside, Reginald's cries summoned him back towards the car. "I gotta go, sorry, Dad's calling. Can't fall behind schedule." He chuckled awkwardly, unsure how to properly exit the situation, before giving up and dashing back through the fire exit. 

"Number Four! Where have you been? The results are about to be announced, we must be prepared to exit immediately afterwards."

Knowing better than to reply, Klaus simply followed the man to the stage wing. If he noticed the lingering scent of ash lightly coating the boy's clothes, he didn't say a word. It would be wrong to interfere with an experiment already in play. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the awful explanation on smoking. My muse has failed to provide an actual description on the process, please forgive me. Also, drugs are b a d don't smoke stay in school and does that cover me for liability? Cool.


	17. Judgement Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an excuse, I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. Rest assured, I'm going to finish this, it's just ✧depression✧  
> Also, I may or may not have created a playlist (let me know if the link doesn't work) for this fic and made it collaborative, so feel free to check it out and add anything that comes to mind, as well as let me know which songs you feel are for which characters. As always, I'm really interested in your guys' feedback!  
> Thank you for your patience :))

[Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/181asMHEE03ICcLxqM9oOo?si=pnKRsxnLRj2nksYUxdi6jA)

Knee-pads were exceptionally uncomfortable. It was all Five could focus on as the car shuffled along, steering him and his siblings towards his hockey tournament. He had decided that he would only be occupying himself with thoughts concerning his upcoming game until it had been completed, to block out all the persistent little voices constantly niggling in the back of his mind. For his tournament, at the very least, his siblings would be safe. Hargreeves would surely not be so careless to allow his six other subjects to be compromised merely for the sake of one. Never-mind that his game would last approximately sixty minutes, a number so vague and confronting Five had almost refused to accept it. He had come up short, attempting to strategise and divide the game into his sevens, and his ever-pressing anxiety had remained vigilant since the concerning thought had entered his mind. But it was okay. His siblings would be fine. It didn't matter that there was only three parts to his game. 

They. Would. Be. Fine.

His thoughts went back to the knee-pads. Or, he told himself they would.

Luther, well, Luther was Luther. Five had seen the equipment Hargreeves had him handling in the gym. Diego almost certainly had some form of weaponry hidden beneath his blazer, he struggled to go anywhere without an adequate distraction for the inconveniences of his own life- apparently this included carving and sharpening, wiring and snapping. Allison had just today placed first in her martial arts competition; she had not looked up from the shining medallion since. Klaus... he'd follow Ben, and Ben would have common sense, surely. Between the two of them, they'd be okay. And Vanya. 

Five wasted his precious warming up time stuck on that thought. What would Vanya do, if they were attacked? Who would she follow? Who would protect her? Why were there only three fucking segments?

Knuckles turned white, gripped desperately around his hockey stick. Sixty over seven. It was awkward, yes, but could he do it? The scoreboard would be displaying the time, if he determined the intervals now, Vanya would be safe. Protected. Waiting patiently for him in the car with all five of their siblings, alive and intact. 

When the whistle was blown, he began the countdown. 8.6 minutes for each interval, a reset at each stage. 

Within the first ten minutes, he had already received a yellow card, having generously provided his opponent with a sprained ankle and bloodied nose. 

By the end of the game, the referee was threatening to ban him from ever competing again. Suffice to say, despite the three goals he had scored, Hargreeves was displeased. Not only had he allegedly disgrace himself in front of a public audience, he had been unable to even complete the match in its entirety. At least now Five might have a chance to determine what exactly it was about the Reflection Room which broke Klaus so thoroughly. He would certainly be spending enough time in there. 

Arriving back in the car, Five retook his seat beside Vanya, eyes unwittingly scanning the faces with which he was presented. Some showed boredom, some curiosity, some mild irritation, but none held the look of utter dread which he had so feared. Inwardly, he thanked his unwavering voices, for he could see they had been correct the whole time.

Seven sections, seven children. 

It was his duty to maintain that number.

* * *

When his Father had received a letter from the writing competition he had been entered in, Ben was more than surprised. When it revealed that Ben had earned second-place and that his presence had been requested in an attendance with the judges, Ben was almost suspicious of his luck. But in the car, as his Father drove him towards the competition hall, it seemed doubtful the entire ordeal was merely a product manufactured by his imagination. As he shook the hands of the judges, had their congratulations showered upon him, he finally managed to convince himself it was completely real, dispelling notions of fallacy from his mind. Accepting the silver trophy lifted him up into a high he startling realised he had lacked severely in the past few years. He simply could not believe the elation inside him when one of the judges pulled him aside to discuss publication of his work. What on Earth had he done to make him so deserving of such a reward? 

"Ben, I just wanted to talk to you about one last thing, if that's okay?" The tawny-haired judge had spoken up again, her voice commanding in their isolated corner of the room. He could see everything, backed against where the two walls met; the other two finalists chattering enthusiastically with the judges, reporters and writers who had all gathered for the rather pompous award ceremony.

"Yes, of course, Ma'am. Chatting with you is a pleasure." Ben would not disappoint his Father today, would not risk additional time in the Reflection Room once Five was released. He had already accepted that tomorrow, after the shooting competition, he would be receiving a considerable sentence to that dank, dark room from the deepest pits of the Underworld. Best not to risk additional charges. 

"What a young charmer you are; your parents must be incredibly proud." God, how Ben hoped they were. "I just wanted to check in with you about your... content. While it was certainly an outstanding piece of literature, I was merely a little concerned about the emotion behind it. There's nothing inherently wrong with writing... darker narratives, of course, but I just felt there was a very personal touch to yours, which I must admit worried me slightly. Is everything okay at home, Benjamin?"

_Is everything okay at home, Benjamin?_

When had home ever existed in the same sentence as home?

And when had his name been short for Benjamin? He certainly hadn't said anything about that to the judges, nor had he put it on his application form. 

In front of him, the tawny-judge- Silvia, perhaps- awaited an answer, agitation buried within her troubled glance. 

"Home is home." He squeezed a tight smile at the end of his sentence, hoping to disguise his unease. Falsehoods had never sat well with Ben.

Silvia frowned gently, pursing her bright red lips. "And at school? Is everything alright there as well?"

"Home is school, for me and my siblings. Our Mum tutors us, along with... a private teacher." Ben suspected the topic of Pogo would not be entirely conducive to their conversation.

"I see." It seemed that somehow his tight-lipped approach was leading Silvia to some sort of wonderful conclusion Ben was unable to predict. "And what is your relationship with your mother like? I notice she is... absent from today's proceedings."

Ben suppressed an very legitimate grin. His Mum was by far the very least of his problems. "Mum has to look after my siblings today, so they're not alone while I'm out. She'd be here if she could."

Again, the scarlet lips pursed, and for a moment all Ben could see was a flowing gash, blood spilling from inside-out. "Well, if you say everything is fine, I will leave you and your father to enjoy the rest of the ceremony." 

Ben was too distracted to manage a proper acknowledgement of her farewell, only managing a small nod. All he could picture was that gash on his stomach, gushing and seeping, stubbornly refusing to close. 

* * *

No matter how or where she lied on her bed, Vanya simply could not get comfortable. Like the Princess, she seemed incapable of ignoring the Pea wedged beneath her. Except unlike the Princess, Vanya's Pea was not a Pea at all, rather the crushing sense of rejection she had been accumulating since the Umbrella Academy's formation. Nonetheless, it kept her up, tossing and turning like some sort of insomniac. 

Perhaps she was an insomniac. This was far from her first restless night, lying with her thoughts twisting mercilessly in her head. At home, she'd drawn increasingly into herself, retreating from the uncomfortable awkwardness of facing her siblings into her violin. Perhaps if she played loud enough, it would take away the rest of the world and leave her standing alone, like she was always meant to be. Isolation was her friend, seclusion her most bosom companion, music her escape and refuge. 

Earlier that evening, Klaus had gone to the unveiling of the art competition he had entered. Down the hall, she could hear him... discussing the results of the competition themselves. 

"Dad, I swear, how is it meant to be my fault I lost? I made the piece, exactly what they asked for, and they thought that fucking landscape was better. Art is subjective, it's bloody hard to hack."

A dull smack echoed. Vanya didn't need to be watching to know what her Father had just done to her brother. All the Hargreeves children had been there one time or another.

"It is not the judge's decision I am concerned with, Number Four. Your lack of commitment and diligence to the task, on the other hand, could greatly use some improvement. Since Number Five is still occupying the Reflection Room, you may go straight to your own room instead."

Klaus wisely made no comment and Vanya soon heard his footsteps sounding on the floorboards outside the cluster of rooms the two shared with Ben and Five. Yet she waited for a door to creak open, only to be met with silence. Acting on impulse alone, she knocked on her own door to get his attention. Since numerous instances of sleepwalking had begun plaguing the household, the bedroom doors could now only be opened from the outside after 10pm. Thankfully, Klaus received her signal and opened the door for her, a rough grimace on his face marred by an obtruding red mark on his left cheek. 

"Hey."

"Hey."

Klaus shuffled, face turned down towards the floor. "Can't sleep?"

"Pretty much."

"Ben never can. Wanna go to one of my hidey holes? They're great for escaping the madly confining walls of our grandiose bedrooms." He waved his hands towards the drab, grey walls lining her cubicle-room. 

"Uh... yeah, sure thing. I mean, I'd love to. You don't have to or anything, but if you really want me, I'll come. Because I want to." Why was she such a wreck? This was Klaus, her brother! She should be able to have a natural conversation with him. 

As she awaited the inevitable mockery following her abysmal social skills, she heard an unexpected sound; the trickle of silent laughter, floating from her brother.

"Of course I want you to come, that's why I asked." A part of her, that infuriating lack of self-esteem, insisted otherwise. 

"Oh. Okay. I would love to come visit your hidey hole."

To Vanya's own amusement, Klaus held out his hand for her and bowed. "Your majesty, your palace awaits."

Maybe insomnia could be fun. Maybe she just needed better company than her own masochistic thoughts. 


	18. Roads Diverged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the OVERWHELMING amount of comments you guys left on the last chapter, I was absolutely blown away.
> 
> I just wanted to put a massive T/W for this chapter and the chapters going forward regarding self-harm, this fic is starting to get a bit dark as the kids get older, so hence I've changed the rating to M. But I'll keep putting specific warnings at the start of each chapter, PLEASE head them and stay safe.
> 
> Also, please let me know what you think of the direction I'm taking, or just leave any feedback because it is all hugely appreciated. 
> 
> Credit to William_E_Cipher13 for the Clair de Lune suggestion- coincidentally I just finished reading All the Light We Cannot See, which used the song a lot. It also hurts me to realise now that it is the Telstra song, if you don't know what that means, you're probably not in Australia.

[Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/181asMHEE03ICcLxqM9oOo?si=pnKRsxnLRj2nksYUxdi6jA)

(feel free to add to it)

The Hargreeves mansion, of late, had held an incredibly eerie aura about it- an unnaturally cold and silent one. Perhaps it was because Klaus, typically the most vocal of them all, was currently incapable of speech. Perhaps it was the deeply disappointed gaze their Father scorned them with constantly, the competitions proving an insufficient outlet for his ambitions. Vanya wasn't sure which was more to blame, but what she did know is that she hated it. Now, it seemed every step she took crudely broke the lonely quiet, alerting the entire household to her doings. This had been particularly problematic during the multiple she had awoken herself by crashing into her door whilst asleep. Somehow, her dream self was yet to get the message that the door wouldn't open for her in that state. 

Even her subconscious was useless. She deserved the watching eyes and judgemental stares which followed her. Clearly, she was missing some vital skill, some precious information on how to function. Where did the others get their confidence from? How did they walk so silently through the house, creep unnoticed in the background or shine bright in the spotlight? Why was it only her being caught unawares?

With a plastic pop, she uncapped her prized orange bottle. A rattle and gulp, the white pill disappeared down her throat. Inside, she told herself it was better now. If she took them for long enough, she'd learn to be like her siblings, one day. She felt better taking them anyways, didn't she? They had certainly dialled down her fits. Not for the first time, she wondered why Klaus didn't have medication for his fits. Sure, they were different to hers; his were fidgety and fearful, hers subtle and suffocating. But still, her reasoning stood. It was simply their Father that made no sense. That had to be it. It was probably part of his experiment, the one Five was always talking about. 

Maybe he could have some of hers?

Their Father didn't have to know. Maybe if she... misplaced some of hers by accident, he'd replace them without questioning her.

She sighed to herself. It didn't matter anyways. Klaus wouldn't be able to take them for at least another eight weeks. She didn't have to make a decision now. The panic which had been creeping its way into her chest began to subside. 

Later. She'd figure it out later. 

Fingers trembling slightly, Vanya reached towards her violin. Even just holding, she felt the tremors subside. Twisting the tuning pegs, she ever-so-slightly adjusted the strings. Rarely did she perform extensive tuning on her instrument, she used it too often for it fall too far from pitch. 

Breathe in. Breath out. 

Fingers on the strings.

Hand around the bow. 

And play.

* * *

Ben wasn't even sure what the thing he'd shot was called. He most certainly never wanted to find out, preferring to repress the memories deep down inside of him. Unfortunately, it seemed his Father had other plans; the unidentified antelope- that was his current theory- had the indignity of having its head stuff and mounted above the living room's mantle. Each time he saw it, the tears begin to flare up once more. 

It was his fault. He had loaded the gun, aimed and fired. He had killed the antelope, left its body to be mutilated and discarded somewhere, Ben had been afraid to ask its exact location. And that really was the crux of the issue, wasn't it?

Ben was afraid. A meek, timid coward who let others suffer for his fears. Some hero he was shaping up to be, all his heroes would be disgusted by him. Not that he wasn't already disgusted by himself enough. Ben had given his mirror to Allison years ago. He lacked any desire to see it returned to him. 

After all, he had come first in his shooting competition, and that fact alone had driven him to the bathroom in shame enough times. Driven them to the shelter of his bed, seeking separation between him and that mournful taxidermy. If it wasn't for his school work and training, he never would have left- save to use the bathroom- again. He would prefer to be alone, where there was no one he could see, no heart he could still with his senseless shooting. If only he had the courage to stand up to his Father, toss the gun to the side and walk away. But Ben was nothing like Klaus, and still rather terrified of the Reflection Room, so he did nothing. 

No. That wasn't right. The entire problem was that he was doing something. The exact thing his heart told him had left him destined for Hell. That's where killers went, wasn't it? And when it came down to it, that was all Ben had really done with his life, wasn't it? 

What a fucking waste. 

Underneath his mattress, his hands rummaged desperately, searching for the sharpener he'd stolen from Klaus a few days earlier.

A knife would have been to conspicuous.

Just as his finger danced around the screw, there was a knock at the door. It dropped instantly to the floor, bouncing once on the dark carpet as Klaus barged in. As his brother's eyes tracked the motion of the dropping peeler, they narrowed in disappointment. A minute later, Klaus' notepad was being held up excessively close to his face.

_What the fuck, Ben? I thought you'd said you were going to stop?_

Sheepishly, Ben tried to nudge the sharpener under his bed, out of sight and hopefully, out of his brother's mind.

"As if you can talk, Klaus. I know you've been sneaking out to get more cigarettes."

A few seconds of furious scribbling. _Fuck off Ben, that's different._

"Is it, though? Pogo said they make you sick. Isn't that just the same?"

Attempting to scowl through his wired jaw, Klaus bends down to retrieve the sharpener before Ben can lose it to the abyss beneath his bed. He gives one last glare, before turning and walking out of the room. 

Damn. Now he's going to have to leave his room again. 

* * *

Hargreeves had to expand his studies and he had to do it soon. Five was running out of time, he was prepared to extend himself, to do anything to preserve his family. With every lesson, it seemed the perfectly balanced seven was retreating exponentially from his grasp. Though he knew was keeping within the man's own deadlines, they simply were no longer sufficient to maintain his continuum. Because what if the time came and he failed? What if he'd taken to long and didn't know enough? He had to be prepared for every situation, every question, ever outcome. And dammit, he was ready. There was no question of his ability or preparation; the only other option was to give in, deliberately disadvantage himself and his siblings. Five was past basic radiation and decay. If he wasn't sufficiently versed in nuclear physics in time, what use would he be? Forget accumulating foundational knowledge, couldn't Hargreeves see? There was tripwire lying dead ahead, and yet the old man marched straight towards it. Five refused to permit he and his siblings be dragged down by his selective sight. 

In his head, the solution repeated itself, a serpent taunting him.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

* * *

Klaus was proud to say he now understood Reginald's decision to make Luther their Captain over Diego. Diego was, simply put, a prick. 

_"Heels are easy Klaus. There's nothing special about just walking in them- you should go down the stairs."_

If he had fully use of his jaw and mouth, he would have giving Diego a proper run down for putting him up to something so obviously dangerous. How was Klaus supposed to resist the challenge? Naturally, Diego was the blame in this scenario. And, if he thought about it, he'd only been the heels to cheer up Ben after his shooting tournament, so perhaps the blame could be more accurately shifted to Reginald. After all, Klaus might not even be living in a house with stairs without the man. 

And boy would Klaus take the stair-less house over Reginald's torture mansion. Every single day of the week.

Yet, despite his heart's deepest desires, he remained in said torture mansion, locked in an unused bathroom for the third time that month. 

As always, the spiders had been waiting for him, sitting in their corner, eagerly anticipating his next punishment. Bastards. He tried to gesture threateningly at them, but without his voice, it seemed rather pathetic to be flipping off a wall. Not that it was just a wall. It was _their wall_. The single happy corner in the mansion, occupied by some vindictive arachnids. Typical.

With nothing to do, since reprimanding the spiders was off the table, Klaus pulled out the notebook he'd been given upon breaking his jaw. It was supposed to be used for communication, but there was no one to talk here. He drew instead. For once, it wasn't the flashes of fear and pain the Reflection Room typically filled him with. Instead, he drew Ben, desperate to make up for their spat the other week. Maybe he could have simply apologised to Ben, but Klaus refused to admit he was wrong. The fact of the matter was simple; Ben shouldn't be hurting himself. Whatever Klaus may or may not being doing on the side was completely irrelevant. Nonetheless, he wanted to make amends, no matter which of them was truly right. Even if it was definitely Klaus. 

Thinking of his side activities, Klaus was cheerfully reminded of the dull pounding that had been echoing in his head for the last few days. The occasional twitching of his fingers. The frustration boiling away inside his head. 

He was really beginning to miss the cigarettes.

If only he hadn't fallen down the fucking stairs. 

Why was he so fucking stupid?

He threw the notebook against the wall, the pencil following not long after.

Why where the spiders staring at him this time? 

What the fuck had he done now?

* * *

Allison didn't think it was going to take much longer for her patience to fail; it seemed the entire house was out to drag her down.

Luther seemed incapable of shutting up about the moon. At first, it had been cute, listening to him breakdown the engineering, the explorations and the studies. But she was beginning to tire of it quickly. 

Diego would not stop tapping, stabbing, scratching, carving. Always, he had to be making some inane noise.

Klaus, well, hadn't actually been making all that much noise with his jaw shut. But prior to that, the screaming, whimpering, arguing? Unbearable.

Five simply had too many opinions to share, too many facts or judgements he needed to pass on. 

Ben spent far too much time crying in the shower. She understood the need to hide it, really, but she also had shower too. And Ben barely even had hair to wash.

Vanya... surprisingly had perhaps been irritating Allison the least as of late. Even though she was constantly playing her violin, Allison found it didn't bother her. She had to admit, her sister had some talent, her music was tolerable. Perhaps slightly better than that. 

Down the stairs, Allison could hear her playing- it seemed she had taken a rare break from the violin and returned to the piano. The tune reminded her of some of the older films she owned, the long, silent stretches that occupied the black and white reels. In her mind, she decided it was a lament, composed for something out of sight, out of reach. Somehow, she found herself in the recreational room, watching her sister press up and down the octaves. For a while, her presence went unnoticed, Vanya too absorbed in the music to process anything else. It took until the song's end for Allison to capture her sister's attention. 

"Allison- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"That was beautiful, Vanya. I've never heard you play like that before."

Vanya smiled nervously, though Allison didn't quite grasp it.

"It's one of my favourites, Clair de Lune _._ I know it on violin too- it's really meant to be a duet, but I don't really have anyone to play it with."

 _Clair de Lune_. Allison had spent enough time on her French for it to translate automatically. 

_Moonlight_. Her first reaction was a cringe, she was over hearing about the fucking moon. Then, she caught herself, reminded herself of the lightness the music had provoked, the liberating pull of the chords.

"Perhaps you could teach me to play it, so then it would be a proper duet."

A dancer could not waltz without their partner.

A rare smile composed itself on Vanya's face. "Yes! I mean, I could teach you, definitely. I would probably just have to start with the basic chords, since you've never played piano, but I could absolutely do it..."

Allison didn't comprehend much of her sister's ramblings, too distracted by the appeal of producing the transfixing sounds she'd been enamoured by before. 

* * *

The plane had fallen down again. The third time this week. Why it refused to stay suspended from his ceiling, Luther had no clue. It seemed preferable, to float listlessly above the antagonists of reality. Ben had once shared with them the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, and it had stuck remarkably well with Luther. A castle in the sky, an escape hovering over peril. 

A hiss of irritation escaped him as the string yet again slipped free from its groove. His ire provoked a rougher grip, inevitably snapping one of the model's delicate wings. He rushed to amend his clumsiness, to mend the damage he had wrought, but only wrecked the little plane further. 

Luther's lungs began to shrink as the plane expanded in his hands. 

"Just stick, dammit! It's not that much to ask!"

The plane landed on the floor with soft bump and crumbled with minute crack. The cardboard was no match for his foot, for everything he hoarded in his mind and body. As he crushed his labour beneath his leather shoes, he caught sight on himself in the mirror positioned on the back of his door. Its pale blue rim was deceptively cheerful. The image within it was deceptive too, but Luther refused to admit it. Instead, he let his brutish, hulking body fill his mind, driving a stifled cry of self-loathing from his chest to his mouth. 

Never good enough. 

Torn between the ruined model and the taunting reflection, Luther vacated the room, seeking solace in the mansion's attic. It amazed him, that after all these years, the tent still stood there, like a candle refusing to be extinguished. Hiding himself away within its curtains, the pictures vanished from his mind- a temporary farce he felt all too familiar with. Nonetheless, the distraction was soothing. 

The twisted voice inside him was wont to ruin it, of course. Gleefully, it reminded him exactly why the tent had been erected to begin with. And what exactly the tent was missing as he curled up inside it all alone. 

He hadn't meant to push Allison away. But apparently he'd done it anyways, his incessant ramblings on astronomy, aeronautics and leadership were too self-involved for her to stand by him. A few infrequent tears fell, though he'd not admit it under oath.

He hadn't found "something new to talk about", of course she wasn't there.

The tent seemed much bigger without his only friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 100% how I'm going with Luther's characterisation- he's hard for me to write- but there y'all go!  
> I am curious to see if anyone can guess where I am going with any of the characters :)


	19. Obsessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, Gals, Non-Binary Pals and all those in between, buckle-up! Booster chairs are being thrown out the window! Welcome to angst-town- those terrible years we love to refer to as our teens. TWs apply from here on out (self-harm, drug use and violence), I won't use those at the start of chapters after this, please be careful and be safe! New TWs will be added as they become necessary, however.

"M-Mum, I think the c-c-cake is ready now."

A gentle tussle of his hair, a light-hearted chuckle.

"There's still ten minutes left, silly. We have to wait until the timer goes off, remember?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

"S-s-ssorry, Mum, it just-"

Shut up. Just stop talking. Useless. Fucking useless.

"What is it, sweetheart? Just picture it in your mind."

Diego spins his knife across his palm, tucks into his harness and repeats.

"D-d-don't worry ab-bout it, it's nothing." 

His Mum's perfectly manicured hand cups his cheek. He wonders how the blend of plastics feels softer than any human touch could ever be. "But I want to hear what you have say, I always enjoy hearing your thoughts.".

And that smile. His Mum doesn't really have emotions, he knows- Five has told him enough times. But, how could she not, when her smile is sole flame lighting the house? Diego is inclined to trust the evidence standing before him, rather than Five's stupid fucking textbooks. At least Diego wasn't trying to build a nuclear weapon in their basement.

"The cake just l-looked r-ready an-d s-ssmells c-c-cooked."

"Well, aren't you an intuitive young baker? Why don't we check it then, just in case?"

All he manages is a nod in response, he's done enough talking for the day. Slipping on the oven mitts, the heat from the oven clouds his vision, burning in the back of his eyes. The rectangular dish sits on the cooling rack, golden-brown washing away the fresh memories of his training earlier that day. 

_"Number Two!"_

A small twist of the head, too subtle for most to catch. 

"Diego, dear? Did you want to test the cake?"

It was never too subtle for her. Five and his bloody science would blame it on her hard-drive, her inability to lose even a single memory. It's bullshit though, he knows that for certain. He knows it's because she cares. It has to be. 

Silently, he takes up the skewer and embeds it into the cake's flesh. 

The skewer comes out clean. 

"I'm certainly lucky I had you here to help me. The cake might have burnt otherwise! Perhaps the oven is faulty, I'll have to speak to Pogo." Her cherry-lips are stretched so far, they'd be in danger of ripping were they real.

_"I suppose we shall simply have to extend ourselves further during our next lesson."_

At least he's good for something. 

* * *

Ben doesn't want to be thirteen. Feels physically repulsed by the number. Another wasted year has been and gone. And what does he have to look forward to, but another year disappointing his entire family with his pathetic existence?

Exhaustion hid behind his glazed eyes; he'd been awake since well before the clock ticked over to 12:00am, October 1. He'd stared, unblinking, as the seconds passed, numbers getting larger and larger and larger until the clock flashed red, beeping softly. That had been sixteen hours ago. Aside from Alison calling Five a cranky bastard in French, nothing of substance had occurred whatsoever. The day, just as the one before it, had been a waste of precious hours not spent in bed. Did his siblings not realise how taxing their petty bullshit could be? Watching away the infinite hours of the night held equivalent entertainment value. Having spent too many a night in this fashion, Ben considered himself somewhat of an expert on the nonexistent delights of the digital alarm clock. 

Seated at his desk, a pencil teetered between his fingers. A blank page lay beneath it, and had been doing so for the past half hour. He truly had intended to add to it, vent his barren thoughts to the paper, but yet again his best efforts had been thwarted. The pencil steadied, settling flat against his last three fingers. Instead of forming letters, the pencil began running itself along his veins, tracing every one as if it were a god placing them within his body. 

There's a quiet knock at the door- in other words, someone other than Klaus has actually come to see him. 

"Ben?"

Vanya. It makes sense, she's most likely the only one of her siblings who would have knocked at all, let alone softly. "Come in, Vanya."

"Do you have any lined paper I could use? I'm out of sheet paper, and it's the next best thing."

"Sure." He rips his own blank page off, along with a few extras, and offers them up to her. She's still standing in the doorway, so he has to stand to give them to her. "Are you working on a composition?"

"Yeah. Are you doing some writing?"

Huh. She actually remembered. Ben hadn't realised Vanya had actually kept track of the Umbrella Academy after getting rejected. "I'm supposed to be, but it's just not coming today." It hadn't been coming for months, but he didn't mention that.

Vanya's face actually fell, ever so slightly. "Oh, that's a shame, I always liked your writing. I'm sure it'll come soon; maybe you just need the right inspiration."

Ten minutes later- he'd been watching the clock again- he could hear her piano flowing up from the recreation room. Getting up from his bed, his hands found his pencil and the pencil found the paper.

* * *

As with her every birthday, dinner was a standard affair. Complete silence, save the clink of a fork against a plate and Diego's incessant tapping on the other side of the table. Allison didn't mind the normalcy, she had had enough time to grow accustom to painstaking routine throughout her childhood. What she was anticipating, however, was the annual respite from the maturity her Umbrella Academy membership mandated. Her birthday. At long last, the single day of celebration in the 365 gruelling days spent within the rather uninspired halls of their family mansion. Tonight, once their Dad had dismissed them, the Hargreeves children seven marched to the kitchen instead of their bedrooms, eagerly anticipating their promised cake. Taking their customary stools, they fell out of numerical order, sitting as equals for the next fifteen minutes. 

This year's cake, Allison observed, was a singular candlestick, decorated with seven coloured striped; red, green, pink, yellow, navy, blue and purple, each with its own real candle embedded glowing atop it. 

After a truly awful rendition of Happy Birthday, all seven children- teenagers- combined to extinguish all seven candles. Surprisingly, despite their substantial group effort, the navy candle remained alight. 

Meticulously, Allison's Mum cut the cake into seven equally proportionate slices, sharing them amongst the siblings. Secretly, Allison felt she had the largest slice, not that she was foolish enough to voice her opinions to the others. She had no wish to enter a duel over a piece of cake. 

"Now, children, I want you to all thank Diego for his hard work this afternoon; he helped with the decorations and the baking! Didn't he do a fantastic job?" Thank you's were mumbled with mouths still full of cake. 

Of course Diego had made the cake, he barely ever left the kitchen lest her Mum did. Had it been anyone other than Diego, perhaps it would have been endearing; the blind devotion her brother possessed to their robotic mother.

Unfortunately for him, however, he was Diego, and therefore it was only mildly tolerable at best. At worst, it was simply sad. 

And it could be said that Allison was not a particularly optimistic individual.

That night, long after the last of the cake had been cleared away, muffled yelling echoed from somewhere in the house. Too many scenarios flashed in Allison's mind, horrifying scenarios she didn't want to imagine, but did anyway. As the shouting pounded in her head, warding off all hopes of sleep, Allison turned to a last resort she had long ago abandoned, turning to the wall perpendicular to her bed and knocking three times. 

* * *

Klaus felt slightly guilty at the relief which flooded through him when he heard of Five's week-long sentence to the Reflection Room. Not that he wanted in brother in there, he wouldn't even wish that fate on Reginald- well, anyone besides Reginald, perhaps- but simply that it signalled one blissful week in which the Reflection Room could not threaten him. Certainly, the mansion held a copious amount of rooms which could be utilised as an alternate prison, but none that contained such malevolent spirits. So it was that Klaus found himself unusually cheerful for a training day, going as far as to greet Reginald with a genuine "good morning" at the door of the bastard's office. Even once he had been locked in the mausoleum, his mood was only slightly dampened. Instead of sub-coming to hysteria as he typically would, Klaus summoned the clarity to complete his thank-you sketch for Diego; a rather comical caricature of his brother dressed-up as their Mum. It was amusing for Klaus, at least. He wasn't sure Reginald would be so entertained when it was the only piece he produced from the session, but Five was locked in the Reflection Room, so he could not bring himself to give a damn. 

After being released, Klaus made directly for the kitchen, thankfully Diego was a creature of habit- there were only ever a select few locations in which one could find him. Predictably, Diego sat on the kitchen table, left hand carving into the table with spoon, the other flipping haphazardly through a comic book. 

"Diego, darling! Just the man I was looking for! As a token of my appreciation for the rather exquisite delicacy you prepared for our anniversary for birth, I have produced for you; one art."

Klaus didn't miss the way his brother's eyes rolled, though he didn't particularly mind. He had laid it on rather thick.

"H-Have you b-b-een reading, Klaus? T-th-those were some b-big words f-f-for s-someone c-coming last in English." Despite his sarcasm, Diego took the offered paper from Klaus, though his face fell once he saw the image on it. "F-fuck off, Kl-Klaus."

"What? I think I captured your scowl rather accurately."

The familiar sound of the disappointed sigh escaped Diego's lips. "D-Did D-D-Dad p-put you up t-to th-this?"

At long last, Klaus' good mood was ruined. "How dare you! I would never stoop so low as to obey our almighty Father. Take it back."

"W-Well, D-Dad said exactly this t-to m-me on T-Tu-Tuesday. T-That I sh-should st-stop pretending t-to be M-Mum."

"Well, Reginald's a prick. I just thought you would make a pretty decent Mum, you do rather suit that dress."

* * *

Five had, simply put, reached his breaking point. For months, he had pleaded with Hargreeves to advance his studies, to supply him with sufficient materials with which to fortify the house. Yet the man had not seen reason, insisting on programs, curriculums, procedure. How a man could be so clearly educated yet so ignorant confounded Five, it occupied the small section of free-thought at the back of his mind. The forefront of his brain was concentrated on planning, calculating. Evidently, he would be unable to continue with his present course of action; his door was being locked externally to prevent him locking it sufficiently, singular questions were being assigned as his homework and Hargreeves was threatening to rearrange the order of his sibling's special training.

Climbing down his fire escape, he ventured into the dingy alleyway beside the charismatic architecture of the Hargreeves Mansion. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven kicks to the dumpster.

Why couldn't everything just stay fucking ordered?

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

He had worked it all out, perfected the design. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

All they had to do was follow the excessively simple pattern laid out for them.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

How else was he supposed to protect them, if he couldn't slot them into place, into safety.

Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, himself, Ben, Vanya. 

But they had to all go and get names.

Allison, Ben, Diego, Five, Klaus, Luther, Vanya.

Hargreeves had to deny him, ignore him, impel him towards failure, towards danger..

Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

He couldn't let it happen. He had to keep them safe. Clambering back up the fire escape, he darted into his room, reassuring himself _he_ , at the very least, was prepared. Hastily, he zipped open his duffle, stolen from one of the many unused bedrooms within the mansion. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven socks. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven shirts. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven shorts.

Everything in order, he returned the duffle to its hiding place, buried beneath the loose boards beside his bed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven breaths in and out. His time in the Reflection Room had decided his mind for him, but he would give it one last chance. In the morning, tomorrow.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven hours to go. 

* * *

The dainty bell her Mum used to signal breakfast had always been much-appreciated by Vanya. It was gentle, calming, reassuring. A soft prelude to the crescendo of a silent breakfast. Her seat at the end of the table intimidated her, exposed her to too many watching, judging eyes. Particularly those of her Father, though at this point she had reluctantly accepted his gaze meant nothing. Because that would always be all he thought of her. When his eyes lingered on her frail frame, it was merely a passing observation, a post-it note reminding him of her presence within the house. 

Perhaps Vanya thought of breakfast as a crescendo because try as she may, she could never drown out the mechanical chewing of her siblings. With little other sound to focus on, each chew was accentuated well beyond a reasonable decibel. 

"I have to build my bunker."

Suddenly, the chewing was nothing. Five had broken the two golden rules of breakfast. His chair had fallen over, one of the beams in its back had snapped. 

"Number Five." Vanya had heard that tone too many times to not recognise it. Five, as he might have put it himself, was on _thin fucking ice._

Vanya, as did everyone else seated at the table, knew exactly what Five was referring to. His grand vision for their perpetual survival, an intricate web of weaponry, renewable energy, self-sufficiency and walls of lead thick enough that they were impervious to radiation. Why it was all necessary, none of them were entirely sure. As far as they knew, there were no wars, conflicts or danger producing an imminent threat to them. There was no reason anyone would wish to harm them, they were just ordinary home-schoolers. 

Nonetheless, Five persisted with his illusions, defying their Father time and time again in the name of "preservation". Vanya knew it had something to do with the numbers, she just wasn't sure what. Maybe if she knew, she would be more successful with her constant attempts to talk him down from his fits of conspiracy and suspicion. 

As Five walked around the table to their Father, she briefly made eye contact with him, shaking her head desperately. For no particular reason, this episode felt worse than any that had come before. From beside Five's discarded chair, Diego turned to her, silently pleading with her to talk him down once more as Five plead his case to a blank wall. Once more, she turned to Five, desperately trying to regain his attention, but he was lost in his speech- most assuredly he had prepared it ahead of time, the night before, since she hadn't had it recited over and over to her beforehand. Over on a bench, the Herr Carson record slowed to a halt. 

7:00am. Breakfast should have been finishing. Instead, Five too turned his head to the silent record player, grinning as the villains in Allison's films did. Vanya's breakfast shifted in her stomach, uneasily swaying with the tension overcrowding the room. 

"I have done nothing but try and protect you all! I ask for one simple thing, yet again and again and again and again and again and again and again I am denied. I've been left with no choice."

Five turned heel and ran, ignoring the cries of "Number Five!" sounding on his tail. 

Vanya couldn't take it, nor could her breakfast. As the sound of metal on brick slipped through the marble foyer, her food found its way back onto her plate.

* * *

Luther had not felt so uneasy since his boxing tournament almost a year ago. It had been three days since Five's irate departure from the mansion, there had been no sight of him since. The leader within him longed to run after him, search every nook and cranny of the city until he safely recovered his brother. But the soldier within him was bound tight; his Dad had forbidden any of his siblings, or Pogo or his Mum, from following after Five, insisting that Five had to deal with the consequences of his drastic actions alone. Luther was torn, though his soldier-self won out. His leader-self he forced back within himself, sheltering it from the rapid breakdown of his team. For breaking down was a truly accurate descriptor.

Diego's tapping had intensified to intolerable levels, constant, rapid and clamorous. Most pieces of furniture around the house had some form of stress carved into it, a permanent reminder of Diego's grief.

Allison was knocking on his walls every night and morning, more regularly then she had even at the height of Luther's own anxieties many years back. Luther suspected she simply needed confirmation he had not run out on her too. 

Klaus had actually disappeared the night that Five had, but contrastingly had returned merely a few hours. Luther had not gotten a chance to speak to or reprimand his reckless brother, Klaus had been sent directly to the Reflection Room for an indefinite time period. Strangely, it had taken an entire day for the screaming to start, a personal best for Klaus.

Five-

Ben had not left his room, claiming some vague and severe illness as the reason for his sudden immobility. Luther was not even sure he had left his room, but had no evidence to prove this. His Dad always insisted on evidence before any claim was made, it was why he had dismissed Five's worries so easily.

Vanya had replaced Diego in the kitchen. Luther did not know what she was making, and was in all honesty afraid to go into the kitchen and check. He hadn't entered the kitchen since the ill-fated breakfast, as if he could somehow preserve Five's presence by keeping it some intangible location, rather than a mere room within his house. 

Luther did not know how to describe his feelings about Five, and this distressed him severely. If he could not articulate the tight feeling in his chest to himself, what hope did he have of briefing his team on the situation? But he could not find it in himself to conquer his feelings, emotions were too difficult for the time being.

Instead, Luther put together his latest model plane, piece by piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my calculations, based on Pogo's 14 years, 4 months and 14 days from the 24th of April 2019, Five ran away at breakfast on the 10th of November, 2002. Please correct me if I'm wrong, I am terrible at maths.
> 
> *runs for cover*


	20. Runs in the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy, so yes, it has been over a month- I'm really sorry guys. But I promise I'm going to finish this, I'm much to invested in it to not. Part of the reason this has taken so long to update is because I have numerous other projects and such on the go at the moment, I had to write a Christmas exchange for my friend (which you can check out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189563 it's TUA, just Ben & Klaus feels with absolutely no slash) and also, I've got so much school work. 
> 
> Speaking of which, I am currently doing a major project for school on representation in film, so if any of you have time to do my survey for it, that would be hugely appreciated.  
> https://forms.gle/X31phevuATp285Lt7
> 
> Thanks so much guys, I swear I will try and update faster for y'all, because I do really appreciate you guys :)

It had only been a week since Five had left, but Diego was becoming well-acquainted with the sinking sensation now living within his stomach. Seven days, one full rotation of their endless schedule. In the repetitive scheme of the children's lives, it was hardly anything. Yet with every passing minutes Diego was becoming more and more convinced that his brother was gone for good. He'd heard it somewhere, perhaps at one of his competitions-

_Most disappearances are solved in the first twenty-four hours._

Or had it been forty-eight?

It didn't particularly matter to Diego. After all, Five hadn't been gone for twenty-four or forty-eight hours. He'd been gone one-hundred and sixty-eight hours. Statistically, Five's chances at coming back alive or dead were incredibly slim. 

Five had loved statistics, numbers.

Alone in the kitchen, Diego sighed to himself. He was already thinking of his brother in past tense. Already condemned him to an unmarked grave empty of mourners or sympathy.

But, realistically, what else was Diego to do? Give himself vain and empty hope that would only crush him when he least expected it? It was better he mourn his brother now, make peace with his absence. 

At least he would never have to lose to the bastard at capture-the-flag again. Wouldn't have to put up with his demeaning sarcasm and near-constant belittling. 

Over and over, his knives embedded themselves in the ruined wood of the kitchen table.

Have to, have to, have to- no, that wasn't right.

He simply would never again deal with his brother again, even if he wanted to. 

In almost complete silence, Vanya crept down into the kitchen, plate in hand. Diego watched, knives still plunging in and out of the table, as she tossed a stale sandwich in the bin, face impassive as she dusted the plate of crumbs. He watched, though her actions were of no surprise to him; they were exactly as they had been the night before, and the past six nights before then. For while the kitchen had always been Diego's domain, Vanya had been slowly intruding on it ever since Five had torn himself from their family.

"St-st-still nothing?"

As she answered him, she dragged a stool over to the bench, using it as leverage to reach the higher cupboards. "No, not yet. But he'll be back soon, he's probably just worried about getting into a fight with Dad." From the cupboard, as she did every night, she retrieved a half-filled jar of peanut butter and opened packet of mini marshmallows. Butterknife in hand, she spreads first the peanut butter, then the marshmallows across two slices of bread cut from their Mum's homemade loaf.

Placing her monstrosity of a sandwich on her plate, she managed a smile at him as she walked out of the door. 

"He'll be back."

Diego found himself without the heart to tell her otherwise. But in his mind, two words played on a loop, silencing everything but the rhythmic thuds of metal on wood.

_Forty-eight hours, forty-eight hours, forty-eight hours._

* * *

In the week since Five had run away, Ben counted on one hand the hours of sleep he got. Nighttime had simply lost all significance to him, his mind constructing elaborate fallacies to keep himself wide awake. It was true, for years he had been unable to sleep properly, but the past week had brought out a whole new severity in his condition. Instead of sleep, all that came to him when he closed his eyes was the echoing of Five's steps as he ran from the mansion for the last time. The guilt wormed away at him, an irrational part of his brain insisting he had brought on Five's final breakdown. But what scared him more than the guilt was the apathy he felt himself building towards the entire situation. Though he loathed himself for his inaction that morning, with every passing day he felt decreasingly bothered by his brother's absence, a fact which concerned him greatly. 

Surely he should be anxious, mournful, distressed at the thought of his brother vanished in the wind, yet it seemed all he could do was lie awake and stare at the ceiling, thinking over and over again about that fateful morning. Watching, watching, watching as the cracks in his family split open into a chasm.

And he couldn't bring himself to feel a thing.

It was a terrible loop; the nothingness, the disgust, the shame.

Tonight, Ben had crawled into his bed the second he was allowed to. Exhaustion had consumed his body entirely, dragging him into the soft abyss of his bed and trapping him, leaving him a purgatory between sleep and the ceaseless thoughts of his mind. Tonight, his brain had decided Five had been brutally slaughtered by Ben's own hand. He watched himself standing over the corpse, filthy, burning gun in hand. He couldn't quite work out exactly where he was meant to have shot his brother; blood seemed to seep out of every appendage and inch of vulnerable chest. The only part of the body that seemed to have been spared was Five's head, allowing Ben to stand motionless, staring down at the cadaver with no uncertainty as to whether it was his brother he had brought down. As the blood trickled down into a growing pool of scarlet, Ben felt he there was nothing he wouldn't give to just collapse, drop suddenly and indefinitely into unconsciousness.

Well, almost anything.

No matter what, he told himself, he wouldn't turn to Klaus. Wouldn't give in and drink himself to oblivion like his brother. That kind of sleep was just as cursed as his eternal restiveness. 

The rooms either side of Ben were silent, stone cold and lifeless. The silence was supposed to be good for sleeping, people were supposed to drift off easier without the horrid screeching of the outside world. But for Ben, the silence only fuelled his waking nightmares.

Because to his left, there was no more pacing, no one vainly fiddling with the locks across their door, no midnight studying or page turning.

To his right, there was no one crying out in their sleep, terrorised by nightmares and invisible demons, no manic laughter or broken sobs.

There was silence. 

And that, of all things, was what kept Ben awake more than anything. 

* * *

Luther was becoming increasingly anxious regarding the Five situation. Though his Father had not mentioned it once, Luther could feel the disappointment radiating from him like a burning fire. He wasn't entirely sure what he could have done to stop Five running away; his brother was stubborn as mule once his heart was set on something- often to the point of patronisation. And he definitely wasn't sure what he could do to fix the situation, because he and the rest of his siblings had all been prohibited from leaving the mansion to search for him. 

Throwing his full weight behind his final punch, he felt the hook give way as the punching bag fell to the gymnasium floor. 

"Well done, Number One." From behind him, safely off to the side, his Father commentated his performance. 

Luther couldn't help but preen himself at the praise, his doubts washing away like dirt in rain. He had redeemed himself, his Father was appeased. He was enough. 

But a little seed of doubt had buried itself within his chest. 

Because while rain may wash away the topsoil, a seed sunk deeply enough will endure the wickedest storms. 

On his way back from training, Luther made a stop he had lately neglected, knocking on the wood of Allison's door, shut as it always had been of late. Though she'd been knocking more and more, he'd yet to actually speak to her, some deeply wound anxiety keeping them apart. 

A vague call from Allison bid him entry, safe passage into her lair. As he entered, she stayed faced away, eyes fixated on her pristine reflection.

"What is-" She caught his reflection in her mirror at last. "Luther. Oh. Hey."

Secretly, his soul breathed a sigh of relief. She still cared. Still wanted him around. She was still within his grasp, safe within his net. "Hey."

All their thoughts hung heavily in the air, unspoken yet all too visible. With a final check of her glassy twin, she finally turned to face him. "You haven't stopped by in a long time. Everything okay?" 

There was something fickle about her, as if any moment she might dissolve into a fine dust. _Spontaneous combustion._ Five had taught him about that, indirectly. He'd been arguing with Klaus on the logistics of a human-being exploding in class, meticulously explaining to Klaus exactly why he couldn't bring one's ruin by concentrating extremely hard at them. Luther had been intrigued greatly by the topic, his memories of the lecture played out with vivid detail. For the next three weeks, he had become terrified each time his body begun warming during exercise, utterly convinced he would become a victim of Five's fantastical tale. 

"Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine, I guess. Just... checking in." It's not technically a lie. Luther hates lying.

That long-lost fear began to slowly return to him, crawling up his spine and into his cranium. He had to anchor Allison to the present, keep her rooted to the house. Safe. Permanent. Safe. Here.

He had to visit Klaus.

* * *

Klaus was fed up with the Reflection Room. It was lonely, despairing and desolate; a place of livid nightmares and torturous daymares. There was no high, no blissful escape, nothing but an unending sequence of new lows for him to tumble to. The fact that Reginald left him his notebook was a small grace, far from a saving one. Yes, it was a welcome distraction, but not an escape. The rhythmic stroking of pencil on paper dimmed his blaring thoughts, but it could not numb like his wonderful new discovery. Ballerinas, were not the only ones with cigarettes- Klaus had discovered there were much more local venders to whom he could turn. And unlike the ballerinas, these wonderful vendors were not limited by time or stock, constantly telling him of _the next big thing_ they would be stocking, asking if he'd like to sample. He'd always declined, exotic and invigorating as the candy store seemed, it was well beyond his pay-bracket. For now, at least. He was saving up, he'd get there eventually. 

But after Five had run away, he'd given in. Stealing away with his precious stash, he'd bought the only thing that felt familiar. Cigarettes, apparently, also came with some variety. And while Klaus admitted the nicotine packed a beautiful hit, well, the weed had simply hit _better. Stronger. Longer._

Locked away in the mansion's forgotten room, he longed to go back, clear his head so completely once more. To take away that niggling edge sitting relentlessly at the back of his mind. His pencil tapped, tapped, tapped. He wanted out.

"Dad! I'm sorry! I've learnt my lesson, I'm ready to come out now." As expected, there was no reply. Throughout all the years he had been locked in the room, Reginald had never answered any of his calls, no matter how much he pled, cried or screamed. "I even drew you a picture- please, Dad!" At this point, it was really just tradition, another way to stave off the insanity that glowered at him from the corner of the room. 

That fucking spider's web. One day, he'd bring one of his Mum's broom and tear it down. 

A knock sounded at the door, accompanied by the jiggling of a locked door handle, jostled Klaus from his thoughts.

"Klaus? It's Luther. I need your help." Luther spoke in a whisper, almost certainly petrified that Reginald would come across him so blatantly disobeying orders and lock him in the room with his brother. 

For a moment, Klaus sat in silence, head trying to wrap itself around the anomaly taking place just outside of his sight. The great Number One, brought so low as to ask the degenerate Number Four for aid. In fact, it was such a surreal experience, Klaus' first thought was to dismiss the situation entirely. "Luther, I think you've hit your head too hard- you should go see Mum."

There was the customary pause as Luther processed Klaus' statement, he'd always struggled with sarcasm. "Very funny Klaus. But, will you? Help me, I mean."

Crawling to the door, Klaus tried to peer beneath it, trying to verify his brother's presence within reality. "What on Earth would you need my help with? I'm not teaching you ballet, you don't have the figure for it."

The door shook violently, probably from Luther banging his great big head against it in frustration. "Will you help me or not?" The tells of rising ire were emerging in his brother's words, warning Klaus where the line had been drawn.

"Fine, fine. Yes, I'll help you. What do you need?"

Across the wooden barricade, Luther inhaled deeply. Whatever he wanted, it was definitely contraband, a high risk venture, but with what reward?

"If I can get you out of here early, can you help me get a present for Allison?"

Aha. There it was. Extremely in-character for Luther, Klaus should have know only Allison would lead his brother to such drastic measures. A satisfied smile worked itself across his face as he tried to estimate where his brother's face sat in the hall.

And now, the final push. "I want to be at dinner tonight."

"Deal."

* * *

Three days after Five had disappeared, Vanya's Father commissioned a portrait of his missing child. And two weeks later, when she found herself walking past the commendable work of portraiture, an unpleasant shudder overcame her as she recognised the painting to be not a vigil, a beacon for her lost brother, but a memorial.

The unpleasant shudder had spread throughout her body, knotting itself into an intricately woven web of repulsion. In the end, it took only about ten minutes before Vanya was kneeling before the toilet, desperately trying to purge her body of whatever pathogen had invaded her mind so thoroughly. 

Five was coming home. Five was coming home. Five was coming home.

A lie spoken enough will always become the truth, and Vanya spoke those words like an oath, a promise to the world. 

In the bathroom, the clock Diego had demanded installed to counter the obscene time Allison and Ben spent in the shower ticked over to 8pm. Vanya flushed the toilet, knowing the worst of the shudder had passed, and washed her mouth out until the taste of her fear went away.

Entering the kitchen, Diego predictably sat atop a counter, chucking his knives at the kitchen table with an appearance of nonchalance that would be concerning had she not known her brother as she did. The training of the Umbrella Academy, she knew from Five, was brutal. Any skill taught was perfected; there was little to no chance of Diego missing his mark. Vanya, though she'd seen him down here every night since Five had left, found herself unable to judge Diego's predictability- it wasn't as though the vigorous schedule the children endured left for variation. And she'd come down with an untouched sandwich and a sense of dread in her pulsing heart. Yet she would drag the same stool to the higher cupboards and remake her shrine. 

In a way, she was glad for Diego's unwavering presence within the kitchen, stability was just so much simpler to process. Using the kitchen was a foreign enough experience on its own, having to worry about any potential occupants while she worked was a stressor she felt was entirely unnecessary. 

Opening her cupboard, she let out a hum of surprise to see several additional jars of peanut butter, along with multiple packets of the same marshmallows she had been using stocked within its walls that had assuredly not been there the night before. Eyes open in wonder, she pulled out each jar and bag just to prove they were real. If they were, it meant she had enough to bring Five home, keep an eternal flame beaming in the dark to guide his path.

The room has an unusual silence about it, the air still in an unfamiliar way. It takes Vanya a moment to pin the creeping strangeness, snatching the sound from the room, but when she does, she snatches it and snaps her head towards it.

Diego has stopped his faultless routine, knives secured in his hands.

"I f-figured you w-would n-need some m-more, f-for when F-Five comes b-back." In her shock, she nearly drops the precious jar she'd been holding to her chest, fumbling with it to keep it from the floor. "S-So I just a-asked Mum t-t-to get s-some e-ex-extra fr-from the sh-shop-ps."

Clambering down from her stool, Vanya wraps her arms around her brother as tightly as she can manage. It's funny, she can't seem to remember the last time she'd done so.

* * *

Since Five had run away, Luther had been acting stranger than ever, at least in Allison's eyes. Of course, she'd been acting different as well, all the Hargreeves siblings had been, but having _him_ initiate and plan a midnight excursion throughout the house was almost alarmingly wrong for Luther. Regardless, Allison had still jumped at the invitation, readying the family record player and some classical records she'd pilfered from Vanya for their illicit adventure. She'd even managed to wrangle a six-pack of cola cans from one of her fellow kung-fu students, which she had gone to pain-staking efforts to keep secret from not only her Dad, but Luther as well. It would be criminal to have her surprise spoilt before the festivities had already begun.

Climbing up to the abandoned attic had been rather exhilarating, a rush she had not quite experienced before. When she set her eyes upon their crude yet sturdy tent, she seemed to rise higher, heart beating audibly in the tranquil dark. Her and Luther had been incredibly hard-pressed to get Klaus to relinquish his fairy lights, if only temporarily, yet they had eventually succeeded; Allison essentially forcing to accept their offer whilst Luther had him pinned against the wall. Looking around at the final product, Allison grinned. It had most definitely been worth the effort.

Sitting beneath the comforting stretch of fabrics, Allison felt as though she was finally well on her way to adulthood. At long-last, she was properly growing up, freed from the burden of her immature siblings. From her bag, she retrieved the record-player, letting the washy notes roll over her slowly. 

"Tonight, I have procured for us, a feast." Hands rummaging again through her bag, she produced the cola, triumphantly setting down on the rug they shared between them.

At the sight of the contraband, Luther's eyes lit up in the way she had missed dearly. "Where'd those come from? No way Mum was allowed to buy them, she had a hard enough time getting marshmallows for Five."

For only a brief fragment of time, Allison felt she truly had her brother back. She smiled genuinely, bringing with it a strange cacophony of emotion she had been estranged from for weeks. "I have my secrets."

Luther laughed at that. How long had it been since she'd heard him laugh? 

Suddenly, he straightened his face, reaching into his top pyjama pocket with trembling hands. "I brought something, as well. Mine's not good for sharing, though, it's really just for you."

His hands, still tensely shaking, held out a jewellery box, the kind that men used in proposals. Anticipation began to flood her too, as she gently took the box from him. Inside it sat a pendant, a silver heart engraved _A + L_. As someone who prided herself on her words, it was not often Allison found herself render speechless. But as she undid the fragile clasp, her every thought seemed to catch on her throat.

"Do you like it?" 

Luther's hands were looping around one another, each trying in vain to catch the other. The blockage in her throat cleared up, letting her thoughts flow freely.

"I'll never take it off."

Hand in hand, they got up to dance, sway together to the endless night. A cough behind them interrupted them- their Dad, as always, had found them. How was it that Klaus ran free night after night, unchecked and unpunished, yet her and Luther, with their shining records, were held to a standard the others had never even tried to reach? As they were led shackled away from their joyous escape, Allison's mind twisted in irritation. They split without so much as a word between them, and she couldn't help but realise she had just lost her brother once more. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback, ideas for direction welcome :)


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